We'll Say We're Through
by Zealous Iconoclast
Summary: They drove each other crazy. The problem was that they drove each other more than one kind of crazy, and when the waters get rough only a unified ship can stay afloat. The story of Sharon Calavicci.
1. Prologue

NOTE: Title from "It Doesn't Matter Any More" © Buddy Holly, 1959.

PROLOGUE

The chemical laboratories where coolants for the accelerators were developed formed one of the three hubs of research activity in the Starbright compound. The other hubs were the acceleration booths on Sub-Floor 6, where physicists and aerospace engineers experimented with the propelling of macro objects to unprecedented speeds; and the synchrotron chamber itself, Code Name: Omega, where the most labor-intensive and top-secret research of the laborious and top secret Project took place. All three areas were heavily policed by the finest security the Marines could provide, and all three were centers of mature thought and scientific innovation. All three aspired to provide an atmosphere of grave consideration, professional gravity, and carefully modulated efficiency at all times.

_Almost_ all times.

Putting up a fight worthy of a recalcitrant slave about to be thrown to the lions, a man dressed in a brilliant scarlet suit offset by the electric blue of his shirt and tie, fought the arms dragging him across the crowded floor of G-lab, spouting vibrant insults and still more creative protestations. The crowd of scientists, military personnel and civilian support crew roared with laughter second only to the cheer that they let up as the nexus of color was deposited on top of one of the benches, swaying a little as the support of his abductors' arms was withdrawn. He flailed his arms for a moment, spilling some of the martini he carried, the fluid sloshing over the side of the Erlenmeyer flask that held it. The he regained his balance and grinned rakishly at the crowd.

"Sorry, gentlemen and—er—gentlemen!" he called out, garnering some appreciative chuckles with his clownish frown of bemusement as he scanned the testosterone-laced crowd in search of a little progesterone. Recovering very deliberately from the gaff, he smoothed the front of his gold lamé waistcoat and took a cultured sip out of the piece of Pyrex glassware. Then he smirked viciously. "You want to hear _that_ story again, you'll have to ask Sharon!"

There were protestations and groans of disappointment. A fresh-faced new graduate from Caltech piped up, "C'mon! I bet she can't tell it like you tell it!"

The man with his feet planted between two Bunsen burners took an extravagant bow, ostensibly respectful but clearly full of subversive mockery—a bow that he had developed under far less pleasant circumstance a dozen or more years ago. "Sir, I cannot deny _that_! Beautiful she is, and talented she one day may be, but my blushing bride—"

The eyebrow-wiggling that accompanied this adjective brought another roar of tipsy laughter.

"—is certainly _not_ an orator!"

There was more chuckling and some good-natured joshing that wasn't quite audible throughout the room. Then Doctor Kostky, the bespectacled philosopher who was the chair of the Project's Research Ethics Council and provided the voice of the Humanities in a compound full of scientists, cleared his throat.

"That is all very well," he said. "But when we add the fact that Ms. Quinn is not _present…_"

"Oh! There's a good point!" someone called. "Aristotle's got a good point!"

"Yeah!" the young graduate piped up. "Yeah, he's got a point! Sharon's not here. In her absence, I move that Captain Calavicci tell the story!"

Taking another swig of his martini, Calavicci scratched his head. "Pluck out my eyeballs and fry them in ginger," he said; "but for the life of me I can't remember how that story starts…"

A clutch of guys from the Motor Pool piped up in stereo. "_We had just ironed out that bug on Sub-Level Omega,_" they recited; "_and everything was going so well at the Project that I decided…_"

Calavicci clapped his hands and spread them, palms up, the Erlenmeyer flask dangling between the first two fingers of his left hand as its contents roiled in an internal tempest. "See!" he cried triumphantly. "Everybody's heard it!"

This was true, but the giddy crowd wasn't going to be denied the enjoyment of an encore.

"C'mon, sir!" a young Marine cried. "Tell it!"

The hoots of agreement brought a pleased grin to the lips of the man who was the center of this attention. Calavicci drew upon the flask again and brushed his forehead with his fingertips in a gesture typical of the Project Administrator.

"Well," he declaimed. "I don't know if this is a comedy or a tragedy, but I'm going to need a chorus!" He gestured broadly at the next bench and his voice boomed through the room, the strong, imperious voice of an actor turned military commander. "Assemble a chorus!"

There was a mad scramble as a dozen men hoisted themselves onto the bench, sitting with their legs swinging above the linoleum floor. Apparently satisfied, Calavicci cleared his throat.

"We had just ironed out that bug on Sub-Level Omega," he said; "and everything was going so well at the Project that I decided it was time for…"

He paused pointedly.

"_A little Me time_!" the chorus supplied.

Calavicci grinned salaciously. "So I hustled my tushie down to the Community Center to pick up an activities calendar. But…"

"_I didn't have time for sports, and I didn't think it'd be a good idea to take a singing class_!"

"Right, exactly," Calavicci acknowledged, ignoring the good-natured impression of his gravelly voice that someone offered, rendering the opening phrase of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" in a very off-key manner. "So I started thumbing through the art pages. There were plenty of courses to choose from, but there was this _one _that caught my eye—"

The chorus didn't wait for a cue. " '_Painting with Your Inner Harlot!' " _they crowed.

There was a roar of laughter as Calavicci took another bow. "So of course I _had_ to sign up for _that_ one!" he said. "And when I got there, whaddaya know, I'm the only guy, and there's a room _full_ of _beautiful_ women! Full of 'em!" He gestured enormously, rocking back on his heels a little. "And then the _instructor _comes in, and _she's_ got the _biggest_, _softest_ pair of…" His hands worked suggestively in front of him, finger and thumb clutching his drink.

"_Kneaded erasers that you ever saw!_" almost everyone in the room roared together, and the laughter seemed to shake the lab.

"Well, I sat down at an easel like everybody else, waiting for my instructions just like everybody else, and over comes the teacher, frowning at me," Calavicci continued. "And she says, 'Mister, you do realize this is a class for women, right?'. And then _I_ said…"

" '_Yes, ma'am, and _I'm _lesson one_!' " the crowd shouted.

The uproarious ululations of mirth were unequalled on heaven or earth, and could probably be heard up on the surface. Calavicci chortled right along with the rest, and as the laughter started to die down, winked lecherously, and took yet another bow. "And the rest, as they say, is history!" he said. "So let's drink to my last night of freedom!"

"Last night of freedom 'til the next divorce!" one of Calavicci's fellow Naval officers piped up. The Administrator's track record was well known: three wives under the belt already, and less than a year after the collapse of the last marriage he would be wedding the fourth in the morning. Assuming he would be capable of climbing the steps of Wickenburg City Hall after a night of copious liquor consumption and hedonistic partying.

"I'll drink to that!" Calavicci cried, quaffing back the rest of his martini. He tossed the empty flask into the fray, and it was caught by one of the technicians from Sub-Level Omega. "Barkeep, fix me another!" shouted Calavicci, addressing the head of Chemical Research, who had set up a wetbar in one of the fume hoods. "Put 'er in a half-pint beaker this time!"

Tony Wendell from Above-Ground Development climbed onto the workbench next to his boss, gesturing emphatically for silence. It fell, and Calavicci looked Wendell up and down. "Look what the dog dragged in," he commented dryly.

Wendell cleared his throat. "We realize Sharon's not going to tolerate any hanky-panky," he announced. "So… we thought you'd better cram it in beforehand!"

Someone started up the hi-fi brought in for the occasion. Some kind of vulgar disco racket echoed through the room as the double doors opened and two girls with long, silky hair, wearing the slinkiest lab coats ever to insinuate their way out of a fantasy brothel and into the real world, came sauntering into the room. The crowd parted for them, and a couple of Calavicci's administrative staff knelt to provide human steps so that the leggy beauties could climb up beside the groom-to-be.

Calavicci cast his eyes heavenwards as if in a prayer of thanks, then laughed as he curled one arm around each lissome waist. "Well, well, well," he said. "Looks like the cat has better taste than the dog!" He nipped one girl's earlobe.

Dan Penvenen had seen enough. Frowning in disapproval at the decidedly unprofessional scene before him, he slipped through the throng of happy people and left the lab far behind.


	2. Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

Captain Al Calavicci looked at the still-vibrating screen door set above the makeshift cinderblock steps, and sighed. Then he shook out the felt-lined tarp and began to ease it over the body of his blue Corvette. That wasn't fair. It wasn't as if she hadn't known where he was living when she'd married him.

It wasn't, either, as if he was stinting her. For crying out loud, they had just got home after a week in Hawaii, the kind of no-holds-barred, no-expenses-spared honeymoon he hadn't even given his first wife, and all she could do was make derisive comments about the house!

About the trailer, he corrected himself. About the trailer.

He straightened up and surveyed the current Casa Calavicci. It certainly didn't look like much: a rectangular box covered in battered brown siding and set on low concrete pillars. It had four aluminum-frame windows , and the door was still in need of that new coat of paint he had been meaning to give it since taking the lease last September. The little yard was neat but plain, the flowerbeds empty and the gravel of the driveway oddly depressing against the sparse grass. Looking up and down the street, the neighbor's yards differed only cursorily: some marigolds here, a pink plastic flamingo there, a rusty tricycle, a red wagon with only three wheels. Above the low-slung huddle of ambulatory housing, the wide Arizona sky vaulted enormously, mocking the desert dwellings of the urban nomads Al called neighbors.

Finished with the needs of the car, Al picked up the luggage that Sharon had abandoned by the path to the door, and ascended the steps. It took some dexterity and a lot of determination to manage the catch on the screen door with his arms so laden, and then he was inside.

The tiny entryway would have been difficult for a larger man to maneuver. Al moved quickly through to the minute kitchen with its counters of yellowing melamine and the drab brown cupboards. Past that was the living room, so called because it was the one room in the trailer that was actually large enough for a person to do some living in. Here Al deposited the bags, because there was no way that he could manage the narrow hallway with such a burden.

The first door led to the spare room, which served primarily as storage for the overflow from Al's wardrobe. He took pride in his clothing, and kept everything that was fit to be worn. His one stipulation was that no garment have holes or patches or threadbare places. Otherwise, it was fair game, but he did tend to run out of closet space.

The next door was the small bathroom, and this one was closed. Al could hear the rush of water that told him his new bride was in the shower. He moved on to the door at the end of the hallway: the master bedroom that occupied the front tip of the trailer. The room was scarcely large enough for the massive bed (an absolute necessity for a devilishly handsome bachelor, and a definite advantage to a newly-married man) and the wicker laundry hamper. Al availed himself of the latter, stripping off his sweaty clothing. He would've liked to have showered before putting on fresh garments, but the mood Sharon was in he wasn't quite sure she'd be amenable to the idea of a tandem wash… and anyway, he had something more important to do, and couldn't afford to get sidetracked by his wife's seductive curves and boundless energy.

So, he dressed quickly and put on his tennis shoes. Then he left the trailer, pausing briefly in the living room to fish out two small articles out of his garment bag, and started up the street. It was a Thursday afternoon like any other, and the heat of the impending summer was rising from the ground. As Al walked he kept a sharp lookout for people, though there weren't likely to be many about. The tenants here were mostly the working poor, immigrants and Crackers and members of the indigenous community trying to make a life in the city. There was also a generous sprinkling of senior citizens, unable to afford any better on their fixed incomes and unwilling to surrender their independence. And there were two or three trailers let to tenants whose business, Al suspected, was not entirely above-board.

At this time of the day that last breed of person was likely still in bed. The old folks were holed up inside their darkened rooms, hiding from the heat. Most of the adults would be at work—it was a rare household that could survive on one laborer's wages. The littlest kids would be taking a leaf from their extreme elders' book, and were probably sleeping under the supervision of older siblings. The teenagers would be out haunting the strip malls and fast food joints of the nearby commercial zones, living a life at once dictated by and oblivious to poverty—Al remembered such a time from his own childhood. All the school-aged children would be down in the bluffs at the very outskirts of the park that was itself on the extreme fringe of Wickenburg, reveling in their first days of freedom.

All the school-aged children but one, Al reflected, as a deep, thick and lisping voice reached his ears.

"Thit," it said. "Thit down. Good boy! Thake my hand. Thake… good boy! Good boy!"

A smile blossomed on Al's face, and his grim reflections on his neighborhood dissolved into delight. He started off at a trot towards the tiny, domed trailer at the end of the street.

Unlike his, this one was surrounded by a beautifully kept yard. The flowers were not exotic, but they were bountiful and flourishing. The sunken bricks that formed the path to the door were swept free of dust. The rusty trailer had window-boxes made from the wood of orange crates, filled with pansies and snowdrops, and behind the age-stained glass faded but neatly-pressed calico curtains gave the poor dwelling a cheerful look. On the wilting grass beneath the hitch, a boy was playing with a little ruddy-colored dog.

As Al approached the dog raised his tiny head, pointed ears perking eagerly. With a joyous bark, the animal bounded towards its master.

"Chester!" Al exclaimed, dropping to his knees as the eager canine approached, jumping up to put his miniscule paws on the man's thighs. The feathery tail worked furiously as Al fondled the dog's head. "How've you been, buddy?"

With a keenly intelligent look that always made Al believe that Chester could understand every word he was saying, the dog sprung into Al's lap, turned around three times, and curled up against his master's stomach. Grinning enormously, Al continued to pet the tiny body, running his hand over the Yorkshire Terrier's silky fur. Chester's rough pink tongue worked lovingly against his wrist.

Meanwhile the child, who had been frozen momentarily, his face startled and desolated at the defection of his comrade, got clumsily to his feet. The distress vanished, to be replaced with a radiant smile. "Mithta Al! Mithta Al!" he exclaimed, tottering over with arms outstretched for a hug. Al grabbed him one-handed, still cuddling his puppy, and pulled the little boy into a fond embrace. The child reciprocated with a fierce grip that started up a familiar pang of memory.

"Hey, Stevie, kid, how you been?" Al asked.

"Been good, been good," the boy said. "Taked good care of Chethter. Him a good dog."

"Yeah, he is a good dog, isn't he?" Al said. "Where's your Mama?"

Stevie pointed at the trailer, his thumb creeping up towards his mouth. Al gently curled his fingers around the sneaky little hand and rubbed his nose against the little button in the middle of the boy's round face. "Whaddaya know, Stevie," he said, briefly relinquishing his hold on Chester to dig into his breast pocket. "I brought you a present."

"Prethent? Prethent?" Stevie said, clapping his chubby little hands together.

"Sure did," Al said, handing the child the little parcel. He'd made sure the woman at the mall in Honolulu had used the brightest, shiniest paper she had. Stevie didn't get many presents, and when he did they were almost always practical and almost never wrapped.

Expecting the boy to tear into the wrapping, Al was surprised when the child plunked himself down in the grass and began to pick carefully at the tape. Chester's tongue was becoming more insistent, so Al began to fondle the dog's tiny head again as he watched Stevie's meticulous operation. The child circumspectly unfolded first one shimmery foil flap, then the other, and then pinched the corner of the last piece of tape and peeled it away.

His labors complete, Stevie now freed the gift from its wrapping. He turned it over in his hands, frowning pensively, and then let out a barking laugh of delight.

It was a narrow sandalwood box, polished to a soft sheen and smooth as marble. On one of the square sides, there was a Plexiglas window looking in on a diorama of a hula dancer holding a ukulele. When you rocked the box from side to side, her torso and skirt swayed, and her bare brown feet remained stationary. It took Stevie longer than it would have taken most children his age to figure that out, but once he did he crooned in delight. Al smiled in satisfaction. It was exactly the sort of thing Trudy would have spent hours playing with, if anyone had given her the chance.

"I'm going to go talk to your mama, okay, sport?" Al asked, ruffling the child's black curls. Stevie nodded, too absorbed in the toy to form a more verbal answer.

Gathering Chester into the crook of his arm, Al got to his feet. He rapped on the screen door of the trailer.

"Ah… come in!" a woman's thickly accented voice called. Al opened the door and stepped into the tiny dwelling.

"_Buenos dias, Señora Penja_," Al said, approaching the kitchenette, where a handsome but weary-looking woman in a shabby housedress was shaking a colander full of lentils. "_Como son usted hoy?_"

She turned, a smile softening the lines of fatigue, and set down the colander to clap her hands before her lips. "Ah! Señor Calavicci!" she said. "Good, I am well. And you? The journey? Your wife?"

"Dandy," Al said, taking her elbow and kissing each corner of her mouth. "I'd give you a hug, but this little guy's got a monopoly."

She laughed a little and caressed the dog's head. Chester relished the attention, lapping at her hand.

"He so good. Make friend for Esteban."

Al nodded. "I can see Stevie's been taking good care of him," he said. "I really appreciate this, Celestina."

"Oh, it is no trouble," she said, gesturing dismissively. "Chester such a good boy. Esteban loves him."

"He loves Esteban," Al said, jiggling the tiny bundle of fur and affection. He dug into his pocket and pulled out his wallet.

Seeing it, Celestina shook her head. "No, no, Chester no trouble," she said. "No need for money."

"Don't be silly," Al said. "We agreed you'd dog-sit and I'd pay you. If you hadn't taken Chester I would've had to leave him in a kennel."

"But we are neighbors," Celestina protested. "We help each other."

"And you've helped me more than you know," Al assured her. He pulled out two crisp new c-notes—more than he could really afford to shell out, but still less than the peace-of-mind that had come from leaving Chester in the care of these good people was worth.

He pressed them into Celestina's hand. She shook her head in disbelief. "No, no, se_ñ_or, it is too much," she said. "Such a little dog, a friend for Esteban. We not want your money, we not need it. Proud to help a good neighbor."

"You take it," Al said firmly. "Dog-sitters get paid. Besides," he added with a grin; "if I don't spend it before Sharon gets her mitts on it I'll never see it again."

Celestina laughed politely, though Al could tell she hadn't quite caught everything he'd just said. "Se_ñ_ora Calavicci, when can I meet her?"

"Soon's I've got her settled in," Al promised. "She's quite a woman."

The door opened and Stevie came toddling in, his short legs scarcely a match for the height of the metal step. "Mama! Mama!" he cried. "Prethent!"

Celestina shot Al a brief look of disbelief before kneeling down in front of her son. "Esteban!" she said, taking the box he held out. "Such a beautiful present!"

Al didn't understand why, but she insisted that the child learn only English. In his experience kids like Stevie were smarter than anyone thought. Admitedly, he still had something of a big brother's bias, but he had no doubt that the little boy would've been able to tackle two languages. In any case, he'd had a terrible time with English, because his mother couldn't speak it well herself. Over the last six months, under Al's patient tutelage, the child's powers of elocution had improved by leaps and bounds.

Celestina was rocking the little box now herself, smiling so that she looked more like a young girl than a world-weary mama struggling against poverty and loneliness. Stevie gurgled excitedly.

"Mama, look! More prethent!" he said, holding up the sheet of wrapping paper, which he had folded into a neat square.

Celestina laughed a little, and a tear stood out in her eye. She petted Stevie's cheek, and got to her feet.

"Gracias, señor," she said. "You are very kind."

"Naw," Al said, smirking. "I'm just trying to keep my dog-sitter happy!" He shifted Chester's negligible weight into the crook of his arm and withdrew another small parcel from his pocket. "This one's for you," he said.

Celestina shook her head. "No, no," she murmured as he put it in her hands. "No, it is too much."

"Humor me," Al said. "If you don't take it I'll be heartbroken."

She opened the box and lifted out a necklace: a shell carved from pink coral suspended from a gold chain. Celestina stared at it in mute wonder.

Al bent and set Chester down on the floor. The dog scampered off into the forequarter of the trailer, springing up onto the shelf bearing the mattress that Celestina and Stevie shared. Freed of his furry burden, Al took the necklace and slipped behind Celestina. He opened the clasp and wrapped the chain around her neck, fastening it beneath her dark knot of hair. For an instant he was reminded of Ruthie. Then the moment passed and he spun Celestina around, admiring the final effect.

"Perfect!" he said. "Absolutely perfect! You're beautiful!"

"Beautiful," she murmured, stroking the bauble with the tip of one finger. "Sí, sí, so beautiful."

Chester, jealous of his master's attention, began to bark from his perch on the bed.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

Al returned home feeling much better about the world in general. Chester, who was perched with his front paws on Al's shoulder, fondly licking his ear, was a major contributor to the current sense of optimism. Al ruffled the fur between the dog's ears.

When he had left Lakehurst to join Starbright, Al come with two intentions. The first had been to set himself up in some kind of lodgings separate from the institutional setting he had expected (as it turned out rightly so) to find at the Project compound. He had achieved that, though admittedly with less flair and panache than he liked. The second intention had been to purchase a great big dog to flesh out his new life. He'd spent the better part of two months looking for such an animal: border collies, glorious black labs, greyhounds, and even a two-hundred-pound bull mastiff, every square inch hardened muscle. None of them had seemed quite right.

He had been just about ready to give up when, on an excursion to downtown Flagstaff, he had happened to pass a pet store, in the window of which was an adorable, ruddy little puppy with tiny paws and perky little ears, and the most absolutely lovable face you ever saw.

It was love at first sight.

Of course, upon inquiring after the dog he was told that it wasn't a puppy at all, but in fact a four-year-old Yorkshire terrier who wasn't likely ever to get any bigger. Al didn't care. He'd seen his share of big dogs, but this little fella had melted his heart. He bought him on the spot, despite a price that seemed outrageously high for five pounds of fur and affection.

Since then, Chester had become his best friend, hands down. He was energetic, affectionate, and personable. Not to mention the fact that he made it very easy to meet attractive young ladies!

Best of all, however, was the way that the dog would come running to greet you after a long, weary day at the Project, leaping and yelping joyously and reminding you that, however hairy things got, you were still loved and wanted by the most unselfish heart in the state of Arizona.

Upon reaching the trailer, Al found the bathroom vacated, and the door to the darkened bedroom left seductively ajar. He patted Chester on the head, murmuring that he was a good boy, then slipped into the room, shutting the dog out.

Draped over the headboard of the mammoth bed was a vision of beauty. Plump, shapely legs curled over the coverlet, from the pink-enameled toenails to the dimpled knees to the age-defying smoothness of the thighs. The lower ruffle of a powder-pink baby doll nightie clung to the generous curve of the hip. The diaphanous garment floated around the soft contour of the midriff, and spread smoothly over the soft expanse of the woman's bosom. Above the neckline was skin like polished ivory and an absolutely exquisite neck. The round, smiling face with the rosy cheeks and the unmistakably "come hither" green eyes was surrounded by a cloud of enormous, well-teased auburn-brown curls that spoke of an energetic session with the blow-dryer.

Sharon smiled, and the laugh lines appeared at the corners of her eyes. She was forty-three and by far the sexiest woman Al had met since coming out here.

"Hey, sailor," she said, in a low, sultry voice. "No port like the home port."

Al let loose a throaty chuckle. "You said it, beautiful," he replied.


	3. Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

Al sat back and scratched his neck, staring vacantly at the duty roster he had spent the whole morning drawing up. It was one of the more tedious duties he had as Project Administrator. Though the head of each department handled their own staff rotations, it fell to Al to ensure that the requisite number of top-clearance personnel were on duty at all times. As Senior Residing Officer, too, he had final approval of all scheduling of Naval staff, which due to the integrated nature of the Project meant signing off on every roster anyway.

Oh, well. It was worth the drudgery that comprised at least seventy percent of his duties, because the other thirty percent was absolutely exhilarating. He closed his eyes with a pleasured sign, anticipating this afternoon's session in with article accelerator.

Physics had never been Al's area of expertise, but it was amazing how quickly you could absorb it in an immersion environment. The more time he spent with Eleese and Demeter and Thorgard, the more of their jargon and high-speed banter he understood. Science was a language, and each discipline a dialect. All one needed was a little practice and one became proficient very quickly.

No one else seemed to see it that way, but then Al had always had his own unique outlook on life. He hadn't realized before just how unusual his approach was, but now that he was freed of the rigid military atmosphere of a Naval base he was beginning to find his thought processes changing—reverting, as it were, into a more natural pattern. He had much more liberty here, to express himself as he saw fit and to run things the way he wanted to. That must be what people meant when they talked about the perks that came with power.

Mind you, people were also wont to comment that it was lonely at the top, and _that_ certainly didn't seem to be true. Since coming out here Al had caught more action than he had during his second stint at M.I.T.—when he'd been fresh off of Apollo, decked out in tight pants, floral shirts and a manbag, and the hottest thing the Boston disco scene had ever seen. After the six-month trial period of responsible suburban living that had been his courtship of and marriage to Ruthie Zelnik of Jersey, he had been ready to cut loose and have a little fun. He had certainly not wanted for companionship. The ex-astronaut line was still good as gold. Best thing he'd ever done for his social life? Going to the moon.

He'd taken that art class more in the hopes of meeting a different variety of lady than to improve his skills with a brush. As it turned out, he had achieved both ends. Forget the giggling oil heiresses and the liberated, freethinking leftists: Sharon Quinn, the instructor, had proved the catch of the school! Maybe not the most quick-witted lady, but enthusiastic, open-minded, and absolutely stunning. She had a body that made a man want to take up realism as a genre, and a libido that… well, that had made for one heck of a honeymoon!

Al chuckled a little at the memory of last night. No port like the home port was right! It was a shame he hadn't been able to wrangle more time off to a couple of days at home with his new bride, but there just wasn't time for that kind of thing. He'd been in this position just over a month, since his predecessor and former wingman, Admiral MacArthur, had been reassigned to the Middle East. In that time, he had scarcely managed to get a feel for the job, much less devise a system to keep up with the workload. As it was he was keeping his head above water, but it took a lot of effort and even more help from the thankfully superhuman secretarial staff. The week away had set him back more than he could really afford.

There was a knock at the door to his office, and before he could give his leave it opened. Doctor Wesley Demeter, one of the scientists who had given genesis to the project, breezed in.

"Good morning," Al said pleasantly. It didn't pay to make comments about the wonders of allowing oneself to be announced. His experiences over the last months had taught him that geniuses had to be treated with kid gloves, particularly the influential and indispensable ones.

"There were some specific concerns that arose in your absence that I feel should be dealt with immediately," Demeter said briskly. He was well into his fifties, the leading particle physicist in the public sector, and he did not believe in beating about the bush. In fact, if the Project ever had a bush-beating competition Wesley Demeter would come in dead last.

Al smiled. "Certainly, Doctor," he said, the tiniest hint of his naughty, scornful thoughts creeping into his voice in the form of an unctuous undertone. "I am utterly at your disposal."

Because, really, he had absolutely nothing better to do with his time than listen to the bellyaching of a chronic complainer.

"Excellent," Demeter said, taking the chair at the front of Al's desk and resting on hand on each knee. "To begin, the new technician."

Al frowned. New technician? "Refresh my memory, Doctor," he said. "Which one?"

"The new one," intoned the scientist, his voice thick with impatience. "Bushman."

"Bushm—oh! Gushman!" Al said, the light coming on. "Doctor _Gushman_!" Demeter grunted in what Al chose to interpret as agreement. "He's not a technician, Doctor. He's our new computer expert."

"He wears coveralls and carries a toolkit. He's a technician," said Demeter. "And I'm afraid he isn't integrating well into the team."

"He's only been with us three weeks," Al reasoned. "You need to give him a little time to settle into the routine and get a feeling for his role." He wracked his brain, trying to dredge up memories of Gushman's introductory interview. All he was getting was the faintest impressions. A little guy with bad breath. Nervous. Didn't like to look you in the eye. Handshake like a fistful of cold putty. But a list of credentials that would've turned his second wife green with envy.

"I think I'm more aware of what is needed in my department than you are, Calavicci," Demeter said coolly. "I have, after all, been with the Project since its inception."

The implication was _unlike you_, but Al chose to ignore that. He allowed his smile to broaden. "That is precisely why I rely on you to help the new staff settle in," Al said. "Now, I saw the memo you left about the lighting issues on Sub-level Three. Do you think that the upgrades you've recommended can be carried out by our maintenance crews, or should I get in touch with one of the government contractors?"

Demeter paused, momentarily stymied by the change of gears. However, there is something very flattering about discovering that your concerns are being heard, and it didn't take the physicist long to relax a little.

"We can discuss it with Maintenance, of course," he said; "but I do think we would be better to bring a contractor in to take care of it. It will save time and effort in the long run, and anyhow having outsiders on Level Three won't disrupt Project operations too drastically."

"That's true," Al allowed. Sub-Level Three was primarily Filing, Bookkeeping and Security, though Demeter and the other top scientists had their seldom-used offices up there too. "That was the biggest worry with bringing someone in."

"Now," Demeter said, Gushman forgotten; "with regards to this afternoon's propulsion tests…"

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

It turned into a much longer day than Al had originally expected. The interruption had wound up devouring most of the morning, and that time had to be made up after the session on Sub-Level Five. Al had been interrupted no less than fifteen times in the late afternoon, by everyone from his own secretary—a beautiful and very capable lady name Eulalie—to Commander Smythe, the head of Project Security, a cold Marine with a chip on his shoulder that dated back to the Korean War. Al wasn't especially fond of his counterpart. In fact, if he'd been asked to lay money on one person at Starbright who hated his Italian guts, it would have been Smythe.

At last, at nine o'clock, he ascended to the surface and made his way to the Administration lot, where the 'Vette was parked. He signed out at the gate, and then maneuvered his car back into the outside world.

He hit the open desert in a burst of sheer horsepower, the dark landscape hissing by as the wind roused his hair out of its tame conformation. It was a long drive into Wickenburg, made longer by the requisite indirectness of the route. There were times when Al wondered if he wouldn't be able to make better time on horseback, just because the horse could take it in a straight line.

Finally he reached the entry to the trailer park, slowing the Corvette to a crawl so as not to wake the hard-working people for whom night was the only peaceful time in a hostile and hectic world. He stopped by the Penja trailer, pulling up to the curb and looking at the flicker of candlelight behind the curtains. He worried sometimes about Celestina, all alone with her little boy. It felt good to check on them, however briefly and unobtrusively. Satisfied that nothing was amiss, he taxied down towards his own residence.

He made short work of covering the car, and started towards the house with a spring in his step that belied the weariness. He was expecting two very warm welcomes: one from his dog and one from his wife.

Chester was waiting at the door, tail whipping back and forth and body coiled to spring onto his hind legs. Al greeted him eagerly, bending so that Chester could hop into his lap. Not content to curl up, the dog put his forepaws on Al's chest and tried to reach high enough to lick his face. He was too short to manage it, but Al quickly lifted him onto his shoulder, where he might go about communicating his delight that the master had returned to the castle.

The welcome from Sharon was not as forthcoming. She wasn't in the kitchen, and she wasn't in the living room. Setting the dog down, Al moved towards the bedroom, hoping for a repeat of yesterday's game. He stopped dead on the threshold.

The mattress and box spring had been removed from the bed and were now leaning against the wall, occupying most of the scant floor-space. On her hands and knees inside the perimeter of the bed frame was Sharon. She was wearing a pair of snug blue jeans, a ruffled blouse without sleeves, and a bubblegum-pink headscarf. In her hand was a screwdriver, with which she was detaching the footboard from the side railings.

Al stared, momentarily dumbfounded. Finally he found his voice, after a fashion. "What the… what are you doing, darling?" he stammered hoarsely.

"Moving this monster," Sharon said, in her bold, loud voice. "Get out of that uniform and give me a hand."

"I was looking forward to getting out of the uniform," Al admitted with a suggestive chuckle; "but there was something else I was kinda hoping to do with the bed tonight."

"Well, too bad," Sharon said. "We're moving it to the other room."

"The other room? What other room?"

"The other bedroom, of course!" Sharon exclaimed. "I want this room for a studio, and with this thing in here there isn't room to move, much less create!"

"There's no space in the other bedroom," Al pointed out.

"Yes there is," Sharon said brusquely, tucking a screw into the pocket of her blouse. "I got rid of the costumes."

"You _what_?"

"I moved those discount racks full of old clothes into the yard," Sharon said. "You can take them to the Salvation Army tomorrow." The rail came loose and dropped onto the ancient carpet with a soft _thump_.

Al started to laugh. "Oh, no," he said. "No, no. We're not getting rid of my clothing."

"I don't see why not," Sharon said, still working on the bed. "You're in uniform five days a week. There's no reason for you to own all of that junk. It's not like it's even stylish."

"It doesn't have to be stylish!" Al exclaimed. "It's me!"

"You? Didn't realized I'd married a circus performer!"

"You said you like the way I dress!"

Sharon looked up in indignation. "I never said any such thing!"

"Yes, you did! First or second class. Said it was very…" Al groped for the word. She wasn't the quickest on the retorts, but she had a file full of catch phrases pertaining to art. "Very Impressionistic."

"Well, I was flirting with you!" Sharon blustered. "And I don't want that stuff cluttering up the house!"

"It's staying," Al said in the voice that meant he wasn't going to brook any further argument. "If you want some space for a studio we can work something out, but not tonight!"

"No time like the present!" she bit back.

"It's eleven o'clock at night!" Al exclaimed, stepping over the fallen footboard and seizing the screwdriver. "I'll put the bed together: you go out and bring my stuff back inside!"

Sharon sprung to her feet. "Don't you order me around!" she shouted, wrenching the tool out of his hand.

"If you ask me you need some orders!" Al snapped. " 'Cause it looks like when you're left to your own devices you turn into some kind of a destructive whirlwind!" He grabbed the screwdriver again.

"I said don't touch me!" Sharon shrieked, trying to snatch it back.

Al placed his right hand in the center of her chest, pushing her away as he held the screwdriver out and behind him, away from her grasping hands. She struggled to reach. They wrestled for a moment, and then Al threw the tool into the far corner, where it bounced off the wall. Sharon's fingers struck an old sore spot in his shoulder and he tensed with pain, seizing both her arms and pulling her up onto her toes.

Startled, her eyes flitted to his. They were the deep, rich green of Virginia creeper, and utterly captivating. Al tightened his grip and pulled her forcefully towards him, pressing his lips against hers. A moment later, they were entwined in a fierce, feral embrace, groping at one another's clothing.

"Bet you're sorry you took the bed apart," Al gasped as they surfaced for air.

After a little more passionate face-sucking, Sharon choked out, "Hard surface… better for your back… anyway…"

There was a sharp bark of protest, and out of the corner of his eye Al could see Chester in the doorway, his perky face cocked to one side as if in puzzlement. Fumbling with the top button of Sharon's jeans, Al rolled his eyes at the dog. Chester didn't get the message. He barked again, louder this time. He took two dainty steps forward, but the footboard was effectively blocking his passage. He yelped in protest, his tail wagging madly.

Al had Sharon's pants open now, and tried to push them down over her hips. Being fashionable, however, they were too tight to move easily. Sharon was occupied with his shirt-buttons, and didn't seem to notice the tugging on her lower body. After giving it his all to no avail, Al pulled his mouth free of hers.

"Little help?" he exhaled.

Sharon laughed and obligingly removed the snug sheath of denim-clad chastity. She was wearing panties with varicolored polka dots. Al curled one hand around each curvaceous hip to caress a rainbow-spotted buttock, and drew Sharon back into the kiss.

Chester barked once more. It became plain that he was no longer being heard, so he turned up his blackcurrant nose in fastidious resignation. Then he trotted off to the living room, where he could nap quite comfortably in the armchair while his master and mistress went about their nocturnal antics.


	4. Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

Sharon woke up in the dark, momentarily disoriented. Then she felt the worn nap of the ancient carpet beneath her bare skin, and remembered where she was and why. With a soft sigh that sprung from the contentment of love well made, she rolled towards the heat of the other body occupying the bedroom floor. She groped the sleeping form with nimble and exploratory fingers, and her hand found his hip. It wasn't something you could or would say about most men, but Al had the sexiest hips. Bony and chiseled and handsome. His hips and the curve of his jaw: by far his most alluring physical features.

Not that there was anything wrong with the rest of his body! It was hard to believe that he was five years her senior. His soft, curling hair was still thick and, except for a few wisps at his ears, dark. His small-boned frame was wiry and athletic. He had boundless energy and a laugh as infectious as the bubonic plague. Only the slight paunchiness about his stomach and the strange shadow lurking behind his eyes gave any sign of a man past his prime.

Sharon drew herself nearer, spooning her body around his and tasting the salt skin behind his ear. He mumbled something unintelligible and curled more tightly into the fetal position.

Some men were sleepwalkers. Al was a sleeptalker. She'd found that out the very first date. He said the darndest things, too. Half the time he wasn't even speaking English. Now and then she could catch a few words of Mex: something about a boy, usually. He liked to sing in Italian. Tonight it didn't even seem like words. Just strange, rambling vowel sounds.

Sharon licked his neck, hoping to awaken him. They had made feral, passionate love on the floor with the lights on, then turned them off and occupied themselves with a quieter, almost furtive session. Three bouts in one night wouldn't be a record, but it certainly would be nice.

He didn't awake. He drew his limbs still tighter towards his body and began to shiver, deep convulsions wracking his body. He had a point. It was cold in here.

Sharon slipped away from him and got to her feet. She slid along the floor, wary of the metal rails that she knew were around here somewhere. She found her way to the door and switched on the hall light. In the other bedroom were the blankets from the bed. She picked up a couple of them, and Al's pillow, then returned to the room where her new husband was sleeping.

He was shivering still more violently, his bare back trembling so that its myriad scars rippled. Al had never actually said anything about the marks that marred his all-but-perfect body, but Sharon though she had it cased. She knew a lot about him—well, really, didn't most of the world? He had grown up in a New York orphanage, joined the Navy, excelled at Annapolis, served in Florida during the Cuban Missile crisis. Then he had flow an A-4 in Vietnam, which a lot of women might consider a turnoff. As far as Sharon was concerned he'd had the horror in equal measure to dishing it out. In '67 his plane had been shot down, and that was the last anyone had heard of him until Operation Homecoming in '73. Missing in Action for six years, a nameless nothing at the mercy of the Viet Cong. Sharon was almost certain that that was the reason he bore those scars. Over the last week she had had ample opportunity to examine and reflect upon Al's unclothed body, and gradually she had worked out words to explain the situation to herself. In a war that had seemed nothing but shades of gray, Al had found the one corner of true darkness. The scars weren't beautiful, in fact, they bordered on hideous, but it wasn't fair to hate them. If they were marks of divine justice, then his guilt was expunged by them. If they were signs of the Devil's disfavor, he was a sainted martyr. She couldn't even count them, and goodness knows she'd had enough time to give it a good try.

Al's shaking worsened. Sharon knelt beside him and eased his curl-covered head onto the pillow. Then she shook out the blankets and tucked them around him. With a soft whimpering sound, he grabbed the covers and drew them close to his body. Sleeping like this, his face open and vulnerable and his body dwarfed by the bedclothes, he looked younger than ever.

Sharon, however, was starting to feel her age—a state of mind she loathed with a passion. Her back was sore from sleeping on the floor. She returned to the other room, helped herself to the quilt and her own pillow, then went into the living room to curl up on the couch.

There was a snuffling sound in the darkness: the dog. Chester walked the length of the couch twice before padding off towards the bedroom. Sharon was just as glad. She wasn't much of a dog person, and even though Chester was terminally cute, he was still a dog. At least he was a more or less well-behaved dog.

Not quite ready to drift off, Sharon let her mind wander back over the evening. She hadn't expected Al to be especially thrilled about her ultimatum regarding his clothing, but some of that stuff _had_ to go. It wasn't like this was a spacious dwelling for two people and a dog. A step up from her bachelor's apartment uptown in that respect, but still too small. The neighborhood was just _awful_, too. It wasn't that Sharon considered herself elitist, but just look around! Surely a man of Al's position should be living in a better area than this! There were plenty of apartments to let for six hundred a month, and yet Al wanted to stay here, in medieval squalor, surrounded by the dregs of society.

Well, if he wanted to stay here, he would have to pay the price. There just wasn't enough room in the trailer for her supplies, which would have to be moved out of their cupboard in the community center for the summer. So something had to go, and Al had more clothes than any man could wear in a lifetime, let alone a man who spent half his waking life in Naval khakis. His taste in clothing was decidedly bizarre. Sharon didn't mind the zoot suits, hokey though they were. She had no problem with the golf shirts that looked like they had been rescued from the wreckage of the 'fifties. The blazers and turtlenecks that heralded back to the early 'sixties were absolutely stunning. It took a special physique to handle those with class, and Al brought it off to a tee. But the wing-tipped collars and obscenely bright polyester of his not-so-distant disco days had to go.

Sharon had never believed in changing men. She hadn't even tried with her first husband. The long string of relationships since then—going on twenty-four years of liberty that had ended in the eyes of the law at City Hall last week—showed a pattern of selecting the characteristic of the moment, hooking up with a guy who satisfied that need, then moving on when her needs changed. It was a full life, and all that a modern woman could expect by way of contentment.

Al, on the other hand, was so close to her ideal of a perfect mate. He was handsome, charming, witty, forthright, _great_ in bed, free with compliments and desired by other women. If she just tweaked him a tiny bit, here and there, she'd have herself the perfect husband.

Smiling drowsily at the thought, she drifted off to sleep.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

Al awoke to the insistent klaxon of his alarm clock to find himself lying on the floor amid the wreckage of the bed, a hot little mass curled up against his chest. He grinned, ruffling the fur on Chester's head. Then he scrambled to his feet and tried to find the alarm. The predawn grayness was filtering through the blind slats and Sharon, wherever she was, loved to sleep in. Barking his shin on the headboard, Al won through to the bedside table and deactivated the buzzer. A little more acrobatics got him to the light switch, and he surveyed the aftermath of the evening.

His uniform was lying crumpled on the floor, twisted around Sharon's clothing as if the garments, rather than their owners, had been the ones fooling around last night. Grinning at the memory, Al retrieved a fresh one from the closet with only a little difficulty, then fought his way to the bureau for underpants and other necessities.

After a good, hot shower, he was feeling fresh and ready to face the day. Not to mention very self-satisfied. A lot of guys his age, even the trim and healthy Navy types, would've been stiff and sore after spending the night on the floor. Instead he felt more rested than he had in a long time. As he tamed the accursed Calavicci curls, he reflected smugly that there was no great pain without some small gain. Hadn't been all lost time in Vietnam, now had it?

Sharon was asleep on the sofa, the crest of her shoulder just visible over the quilt she was wearing. Al spared her a long, lustful glance. She was a temptress straight from heaven. Just the sight of her lying there like that, with her tousled curls around her face and the white skin vanishing amid the folds of the coverlet, speaking of further milky expanses, was almost enough to make a man cry to Hell with Starbright and call in sick. Maybe he had the "Quinn Flu". Yeah, that was it.

Almost. Whistling softly for Chester, Al moved into the kitchen and opened a tin of dog food. He upended it into the plastic dish, and set it on the counter. Knowing what was happening, Chester came racing from the bedroom, sprung up onto a chair, and from there to the table, then with a running start made it to the counter, almost skidding off the edge. He lunged at his dish, pausing only to give Al's had a worshipful lick. Al grinned and stroked the dog's tiny back.

"Atta boy, killer," he said. "You take good care of the broad, okay?"

Chester seemed to make a snort of acknowledgement that Al chose to interpret as a promise to fulfill the prescribed duty. Satisfied that his bride was in good paws, he grabbed his keys, switched off the kitchen light, and left the trailer.

It was not until Al was on the road, a good twenty miles out of town, that he realized that his clothes were probably still lying in the yard, wherever Sharon had dumped them. He drummed the wheel in annoyance. Women. Always thought they knew best. Well, too bad. She wasn't going to railroad him so easily!

The desert sped past, and at last the barbed-wire-topped walls of the Starbright Project compound rose up in front of the Corvette. Al pulled up at the double gates and dug out his identification for the Marine on duty. It was an annoyance that had reared its head since his promotion from Deputy Administrator. Before that, they had just waved him past, recognizing his distinctive vehicle and equally recognizable countenance. Then suddenly, as soon as he was in charge of the whole Project, they started flagging him down. Al suspected Smythe the Merciless was behind this newly-tightened policy. The worst part was that as Project Administrator he couldn't condone any laxity in security procedures, and so wasn't even empowered to mention the change.

From the outside, Starbright looked like an air field that had had an unfortunate collision with a Ford factory and an elementary school. To one side were runways and helipads, complete with hangars and a machinists' shop. The building to the left, a labyrinth of steel and concrete, was the above-ground decoy. Ostensibly, they were developing faster engines, fitting them into planes and cars, performing endless tests to cut down wind resistance in the former and friction in the latter, while still keeping both safe and maneuverable. That building housed the necessary production works.

In the back of the compound was a low brick structure—the one that resembled a school. It was actually Level Zero, the top layer of the Project that descended a hundred yards and seven stories down into the bedrock. A good cover, it also housed the BOQ for the Marines and the Naval personnel, a daycare for Project employees lacking other arrangements, board rooms, and a restaurant of sorts. In truth, it was little more than a glorified cafeteria, but the food there was better than that served in the below-surface mess on Sub-Level Five.

Every morning, or at least as often as they could both work it into their crowded schedules, Al Calavicci and Tony Wendell had breakfast together in the surface eatery. Today was no exception. Tony, who lived on site and as far as Al knew never actually left, was already waiting for him in the corner booth. He greeted the Administrator with a smile.

"How's the ball and chain?" he asked.

Al smirked. Tony had been married twice, and was always ready to swap some story about an ex. His hamartia was philandering, and like the Administrator he wasn't adverse to a little female company. Al's recent acquisition had changed the dynamic of their conversations a little, but not enough to jeopardize the almost-friendship they had built up. Al wasn't good at making friends: he had learned the hard way that he always picked the wrong people, people who were going to die or take off or, even worse, betray you. For all he knew there wasn't any _right_ kind of person. Friendship was a set-up for pain. It was much safer to build up a network of amicable acquaintances, people with whom you could have a roaring good time or a pleasant meal, even if you couldn't count on them when the chips were down. When trouble came knocking you would have no one to depend on but yourself, anyway, so why set yourself up to have the sting of rejection to cope with on top of your other problems?

"Tony," he said; "have you ever spent the night with a tigress in a pink baby-doll?"

Tony chuckled. "That good, huh?" he asked.

"That good," Al confirmed.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

They squared off over the heap of colorful fabrics like generals squaring off across a broad field of battle. Brown eyes and green met inexorably, clearly communicating that neither party was willing to yield. Oblivious to the tension crackling far above him, Chester patrolled the perimeter of the mass of clothing, sniffing at it curiously. One little paw poked at an especially garish pink shirt.

"They're staying," Al said.

Absolutely not!" Sharon argued. "You own too many clothes, and some of them have to go!"

"We've been married for ten days, and you're taking over my life already?" Al demanded.

"Get used to it!" Sharon said. "This is my trailer as much as it is yours, and I say that we have got to clear it out a little! How on earth have you accumulated so much junk in nine months, anyway?"

"That's none of your damned business!" Al snapped. "And what I keep isn't your business, either!"

"If it's taking up space I require for other purposes, it _is_ my business!" Sharon said. "You aren't going to need this garbage ever again, so I'm giving you one afternoon to sort through it. You can pick one outfit to keep, if you _must_, but the rest of it is _going to the Salvation Army_—IF they'll even take it!"

"This is classic stuff!" Al protested.

Sharon let out a sharp, barking laugh that startled Chester so much that he scampered behind Al's armchair. "Classic? Classic example of why mankind never should have left the trees, maybe!" she said. Marching over to the television, she picked up the keys to her van. "Now I'm going to clear out my apartment," she said. "And when I get back here I expect that garbage packed up in those bags and ready to get out of here!"

There was a silence, during which Al scrutinized her with a deep, penetrating gaze.

"What now?" Sharon demanded.

He smirked. "Anybody ever tell you you're gorgeous when you're worked up?" Al asked.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

"I'm telling you, Tony, the potential for fun when two consenting adults get down on top of a heap of rainbow polyesters…" Al said at breakfast the following morning.

Tony looked up from his scrambled eggs. "You're kidding, right?" he asked.

Al shook his head emphatically. "Could I dream up something like that?" he demanded.

"Yes," Tony said.

"Well, I didn't!" Al protested. "Lemme tell you, that woman is an artist all right, and never mind what she does with her paints…"

"When do we get to see some of Mrs. Calavicci's handiwork?" inquired the architect of deception, quaffing back some orange juice.

Al chuckled. "I don't know if either of us is ready to branch off into performance art," he said.

Tony rolled his eyes. "I mean the paintings," he said. "I don't think _I'm_ ready to see what you get up to in your free time. And I'm not what you'd call inexperienced."

"Oh, paintings, right."

"I mean, your wife's an artist, right? Time to liven up that office of yours. You can't keep it all model planes and fruit salad. Needs a personal touch."

"Hey, it's my personal fruit salad," Al quipped, referring to the display case full of medals that filled one of the admittedly empty walls of his workstation. "I put a lot of time, effort and trouble into those citations."

"I'll just bet you have," Tony teased. "Say, you seen the new brunette in Upholstery yet?"

Al scratched his brow. It was much harder to keep track of the surface staff. Half of them actually thought that they were employed in some vital capacity, and went about their decoy jobs blissfully unaware of the subterranean caverns below them. This meant that Al represented a distant and vague presence to them, very different from the constant supervision that the below-surface staff received. This girl, however, was one to stick in the mind.

"Oh, I think I know the one that you mean," Al said. "Has a pair of pincushions that could…"

"Make Lee Iacocca forget his worries?" Tony supplied.

Al grinned enormously. "_Exactly_," he said.

There was a pleasant silence as both men spared a moment of fantasy for the woman's curves. Then Tony sat up a little.

"So did you settle it?" he asked. "The fight over the clothes."

"Oh, yeah," Al said. "We compromised. The master bedroom's set up as a studio for Sharon, we've got the bed in the other room, and the Salvation Army has moved into the seventies."

"What did you get out of it?"

"Kept three outfits instead of one, and I still get to use both closets," Al said.

Tony whistled. "Sounds to me like she won," he commented.

"Naw," Al said with a wicked grin. "_I_ get to pick the… entertainment for the rest of the week!"

As both men indulged in a little lecherous laughter, the guy in the next booth got to his feet and strode off. Watching him go, Al tried to place the face. It was the new man from Human Resources. Arrived a fortnight ago, heavily recommended by one of Al's old acquaintances from Briarpatch, now a Congressman for Colorado. It took a little longer for the name to come to him. Penner? Pendragon?

Penvenen. That was it: Penvenen.


	5. Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

The process by which a civilian is granted access to restricted areas of a top-secret government project is a slow one. When one has to go through the alternate channel—that channel _not_ ultimately involving the consent of the Project Administrator, it is still slower. So it was that Sharon did not make her first visit to the Starbright compound until six weeks after the wedding.

Al brought her with him on a Monday, because usually the beginning of the week was slower, before the small daily excess accumulated into an unmanageable heap of paperwork that usually kept him late on Fridays. She couldn't quite believe how long the drive actually took, though she did revel in the speed of the Corvette as it zipped through the evolution of a desert dawn.

They met Tony for breakfast, which passed with fewer lewd comments than usual. Then Al brought her down into the depths of the Project.

His office on Sub-Level Five was their first stop. He introduced Sharon to his secretary, Eulalie Pharris, and then had to endure a lot of feminine cooing over his medals while he got a start on his day. Sharon accompanied him on his rounds of the chem labs on Sub-Level Four. Lunch was indifferent tuna fish sandwiches in the Sub-Five mess, and by then Sharon was beginning to wilt, unaccustomed to such an early start, so Al took her up to Sub-Level Three and unlocked his quarters.

Every member of the staff deemed "essential" had quarters on-site. Some, like Doctor Wendell, used them as waystations to break up the brutal multi-day shifts sometimes put in by the scientists. Others, like Doctor Eleese, made their permanent residence in the tiny subterranean apartments. Personally, Al hadn't even used his since the early days of trailer-hunting—at which time he'd been housed in still smaller rooms. Now he had the Administrator's quarters: a kitchenette, a sitting room, a tiny study and a small bedroom. They were the best on site, equipped with a computer, one of the Project's five outside telephone lines, and, for no apparent reason, a strong television signal.

Sharon wandered through the very institutional rooms with a curious look on her face. Al wandered into the kitchenette, where he remembered Mac had left a bottle of old scotch. He poured himself half a tumbler of the amber fluid. It was good stuff. He sipped at it, then wandered through to the bedroom, where Sharon was staring at the large, blank white walls.

"You know," she said as he came up behind her; "you could do an awful lot with these walls."

"No you don't!" Al said. "I'm not letting you turn this place into a reprise of your van!"

Sharon's van was a Volkswagen with a beautifully-kept body and a sorely neglected engine. It was also, hands down, the most distinctive vehicle Al had ever driven—and he was by no means one to spring for inconspicuous cars. Aside from its mammoth size and box-like proportions, there was the bodywork. Whatever color that sucker had been born was long since lost to posterity. At some point in its undoubtedly checkered career it had been done over in a vivid electric purple. Even this, though, was difficult to discern under the decoration lavished upon the vehicle by its creative owner. The front was painted like a butterfly, with the headlights as spots and the circular hallmark as the head. On the driver's side was a mural of a wooded landscape that started in winter at the front, then passed through spring and summer to autumn at the back. The passenger's side was an abstract inferno of angular geometrics that continued up onto the top. The back bore a coat of arms that Sharon described as "a field sable, deux chevrons argent and a paintbrush rampant". Not content with leaving any useable surface blank, she had enameled the hubcaps in spirals and nexuses that had to be a genuine roadway hazard when the thing was moving. Al wasn't sure if his wife was still living in the sixties, or just trying to cause a pileup.

"It's boring!" Sharon said.

"I don't care. This is a military establishment, and you can't just go around painting the walls," Al told her.

"The military is overrated," she pouted. She sauntered towards him, hips swaying beneath her smooth abdomen, and twined her arms around his neck. Al carefully set the whiskey down on the empty bureau, then gave in to the kiss she was trying to start up. "At least let me put up some paintings," she murmured.

"We'll see," Al mumbled, one hand holding her as close to himself as he could, and the other fumbling with Sharon's zipper. "One thing I've always wanted to do," he confided as she pulled his shirt down around his waist.

"Which is?" Sharon breathed.

With a single quick motion, Al flung her down on the bed and settled on top of her.

"Test the springs in this mattress," he said.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

Sharon sighed contentedly as Al slipped out from under her arm and began to get dressed. Her eyes closed and she curled herself into a ball. Al carefully pulled the white blanket over her. He would've liked to nap, too, but the fact was that he was on duty, and really should be downstairs working. He moved into the study, found a pad of paper, and scrawled a quick note leaving Sharon the extension she should call when she awoke, and strict instructions not to go wandering around the Project on her own.

Out in the corridor, he made his way directly to the elevators. One of Starbright's minor security features to help confound and hinder intruders was that the lift controls were deliberately confusing. You pushed the "up" button to go to a Sub-Level with a higher number than the one you were on. Inside, the buttons were randomized and labeled with Greek letters proceeding backwards from Omega—which wasn't even accessible by elevator. Al depressed the "up" button, and waited patiently.

There was the sound of practical pumps on the linoleum. "Captain Calavicci!" a firm, imperious voice exclaimed.

Al turned to see Doctor Donna Eleese, quite possibly the foremost quantum physicist in the world, hurrying towards him. She was a drop-dead gorgeous brunette with long, shapely legs and handsome casabas that were always obscured by the broad lapels of her immaculate lab coat. She had a stainless steel clipboard in the crook of one arm, and the other hand in her coat pocket.

"Doc," Al said brightly.

"I've been trying to track you down for over an hour," Eleese said, her voice jaded with annoyance. "We're having some difficulties with the computers in Omega, and the new technician doesn't seem to be up to the task of repairing them."

"If you're talking about Doctor Gushman," Al said; "he isn't a technician. What kind of difficulties?"

"If I knew that, I would fix it myself," she snapped.

It was a shame, Al thought, that such a beautiful young lady had such a big chip on her shoulder. Donna Eleese seemed to have some kind of a grudge against the world. When Al had first met her at Lakehurst, when she and Mac had come out to give him an interview for the Deputy Administrator position, he had been warned not to try his customary charm on her. So he had gone easy on the charisma and heavy on the jargon, and apparently won her approval, since he was here now.

That being said, though, Al never had the slightest idea where he stood with her. She was an impossible nut to crack. One moment she was treating him like an equal, in as much as she ever treated anyone like an equal, and the next she was talking down to him like he was nothing but a washed-up star jock who had somehow wound up where he really didn't belong.

The elevator arrived, negating the need for further discussion as they entered and Al depressed the "Psi" button. The door closed and Al's stomach lurched as they began their descent. Doctor Eleese turned to her clipboard, studiously ignoring him.

They disembarked on Sub-Level Five, and made their way quickly to the stairwell that led down to the synchrotron labs. Behind the locked door were two Marine guards, who stood aside on the narrow landing to allow Al and Eleese to pass. Halfway down there was another pair, these ones heavily armed. At last when they reached the bottom, there was a broad entryway with half a dozen men. Here they had to sign in before being admitted into the lowest level.

Al let Eleese brush past him, marching towards the control room where the computers and recording equipment were housed. Inside, the crew of physicists and theorists stood in a knot in the corner, grumbling discontentedly while the technicians wrestled with the mammoth machines. Bent over the main console was little Doctor Gushman, mumbling frenetically to himself as if by doing so he could make sense of the problem.

"Any progress?" Eleese demanded.

"N-no, Doc-oc-octor," Gushman stuttered.

Eleese's eyes flashed. "Why not?"

"I—I—I—"

Al had seen enough. He was the Project Administrator, and if anyone had the authority to take charge of this situation it was him. He didn't like the programmer's spineless attitude, but that didn't mean that the man should have to put up with an audience while wresting with the complex circuitry.

"All right," he said, striding further into the room and starting to herd the crowd of eggheads out. "You kids from the brain trust can all just take an unscheduled lunch hour. Get out topside and catch some rays or something."

Doctor Eleese stiffened. "You don't have the authority—"

Al favored her with his most dazzling smile. "Darling, I have the authority to shut this Project down on ten seconds' notice. I think I've got the authority to clear a room. Now, go put your feet up for a while. When we have everything back on line down here I promise you'll be the first to know."

She stared at him, and Al got the distinct impression that no one had ever taken that tone with her before. It took her a moment to find her voice.

"Very well," she said, the finest hint of scorn filtering into her voice. "I'll leave this situation in your _capable _hands."

She turned and left. Al looked around to ensure that only qualified personnel were present, then closed and deactivated the automatic doors. He turned to Gushman and his crew of techs.

"All right, Doctor," he said. "What seems to be the problem?"

The programmer stared at him in mute confusion. Al recognized the expression. He was paralyzed with stage fright. "Would it help if I left, too?" Al asked kindly.

"I—I—I mean… I…"

Al had to grit his teeth to keep from rolling his eyes. He had met some mighty insecure people in his time, but this was a new low. Not even capable of stringing together a coherent sentence. "Okay," he said. "I'll be right outside if you need me."

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

As it turned out, a little elbowroom was all that Gushman needed. Inside of an hour everything was back online. Al returned to his office and bent over the growing pile of paperwork.

When the intra-Project telephone rang, Al looked up to realize that the entire afternoon had slipped away, and it was now almost seven o'clock. He scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and picked up the receiver.

"Calavicci," he said.

"And what am I, chopped liver?" an irate voice demanded. "You wander off and let me nap for five hours—I'm not going to be able to sleep tonight!"

Al frowned. He had forgotten all about his wife. "Sharon… right…" he mumbled, his tired mind stumbling over itself. "Right. You ready to go home?"

As a matter of fact, she had a few choice words about just _how_ ready she was, so as soon as he could hang up without running the risk of initiating divorce proceedings Al wrapped up his labors for the night and locked down his office.

The drive home was a quiet one, Sharon scowling disapprovingly and Al drowning the stresses of the day in the cold rush of man-made wind. Once inside, Al fed Chester and made a beeline for the shower, trying to wash away his frustrations and failing miserably.

Maybe it was all more trouble than it was worth. All this work, all this conflict, and what was the Project really accomplishing? The scientists hated each other, the military personnel chafed at the inaction and the Administrator couldn't even make peace with his unfathomable wife. What was the point?

Suddenly the glass door of the shower popped open and Sharon climbed in. Al grinned enormously as he moved over to admit her.

Maybe, he reflected philosophically, life wasn't so pointless after all.


	6. Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE

Sunday was Chester's day.

During the week, Al didn't have much time to spare for his little guy, and on Saturdays Sharon usually monopolized his attention. On Sundays, however, the new Mrs. Calavicci drove to Phoenix to visit her father, and Al was free to spend the whole day with his dog.

Their routine never varied. After seeing Sharon off in the Van from the Sixth Dimension, Al would wash the dishes while Chester patrolled the house, securing the perimeter. These necessary chores complete, dog and Master would head out for a nice, invigorating walk around the trailer park, which was quiet as the grave at least until noon on Sundays. After that they'd make for the vacant field beyond the bluffs, where they could play fetch, or run, or lie in the sun.

When they tired of that, it was back home to eat—some kind of light lunch for Al and a dog-treat for Chester. Then a nap together on the sofa. Then they would go for a drive in the desert, Chester on Al's lap with his tiny forepaws on the edge of the 'Vette. After that it was time for Chester's bath, which Al had discovered the hard way could not be accomplished when Sharon was around. He didn't see what her problem was. Chester was a clean little guy—and in order for him to stay that way he needed regular baths. These couldn't be done in the shower, and the sink in the bathroom was far too small even for the dog's tiny body. That made the kitchen the best option. Besides, Al always took care to rinse the sink and wipe it and the counters down with bleach afterwards. He didn't want dog fur in _his_ food, either!

After Chester's bath they'd settle in front of the television to watch whatever game happened to be on while Al brushed the dog's fur. Then a moonlight jog or a session of fetch in the tiny back yard rounded out the evening until Sharon came home, when Master's attention would be diverted again.

Today, though, they only got as far as heading back home for lunch. Coming back across the field past the bluffs, Al stopped when he heard a low-pitched sob followed by laughter. Chester, ever obedient, halted despite his lack of leash, and trotted back to stand near Al's shoes.

Another sob, vulgar and tortured, sounded out. Then Al heard the chanting, and his blood ran with fire.

"Cry-baby, cry-baby, monkey-face and cry-baby!"

"Sit," Al ordered Chester. With a look of imploring that would have melted his heart under any other circumstances, the terrier sat, doubtless bewildered by the fury in his master's voice. Al took two steps towards the knot of bushes and poplars.

"Cry, you stupid chimp! Cry!"

They were the voices of little boys, the most thoughtlessly cruel creatures on the planet. Al quickened his pace, forgetting the dog that he was leaving behind, forgetting that he was an adult who should be above such hot surges of wrath, forgetting everything but the spiteful voices and the broken sobs. The sounds were bitterly familiar, and that familiarity closed a fist of rage upon his heart.

In the clearing near the brook that ran through the bluffs a circle of boys from the trailer park were gathered, laughing and taunting. On his knees in their midst, small hands covering his face, was Stevie, sobbing desolately as the cruelty continued.

"Retard! Cry-baby!" a boy taunted. The others took up the chant again. "Cry-baby! Retard! Cry-baby!"

Al wasn't thinking. Afterwards he thanked whatever satyr looked out for disillusioned ex-astronauts that he didn't hit any of the little punks. He charged into their midst.

"Get the hell out of here!" he roared, swatting the air in a fit of uncontrollable choler. "Go on, get! You little brats, get the hell out of here and leave him alone! _Leave him alone_!"

He fell to his knees and gathered Stevie into his arms, dimly aware that the child wasn't the only one with tears of hurt and indignation streaming down his cheeks. Al hugged the little boy as tightly as he could, rocking him back and forth. Gradually they both calmed down, Stevie out of his desolation and Al out of his fury. The thumb somehow found its way back into the little boy's mouth, but Al left it, stroking the round little cheeks and brushing the tears away from each epicanthus, the characteristic fold on the inside of the eye that marked Stevie and all others like him. Branded them and left them open to the kind of ridicule this child had just suffered.

"I guess kids never change, huh, sport?" Al murmured softly. Stevie didn't answer. He just cuddled closer to the adult's chest. Al hugged him again and hid his grieving heart in the firmness of his next question. "Did they hurt you?"

"Yellin'," Stevie said in a tiny voice. "I not a cry-baby."

"Of course not," Al said fiercely. "You're one of the bravest people I know. They're just jealous."

Stevie made a snorting noise that Al initially thought heralded another bout of crying. Instead, the boy sat up, smiling broadly, and held out his hand. "Chethter!" he exclaimed, his hurt forgotten in the joy of the moment.

Sure enough, there was Chester, wagging his tail and lapping eagerly at Stevie's fingers. Al smiled, his heart eased by the perky little face and adoring black eyes.

"Yeah," he said. "Chester and me were just headed home for some lunch. You want to come?"

Stevie looked up at Al with dark eyes that could've melted the polar glaciers. "Lunch?" he said. "Yeth, pleathe, Mithta Al! Yeth, pleathe!"

Grinning, Al got to his feet. He wished he could lift the boy onto his shoulders, but small though he was for his age Stevie was seven, almost eight, and far too heavy for the long-ago weakened sockets that would've had to bear his weight. Instead, Al picked up Chester.

"You wanna carry him?" he asked Stevie.

"Oh, yeth! I carry Chethter! Good boy!" Stevie cried, clapping his hands in excitement.

Al curled the short arms around the dog's tiny body. Chester stayed still like the well-behaved canine he was and let Stevie get a nice firm hold before licking the child's cheek. Stevie laughed, his eyes now dancing with delight.

They walked back to the trailer park together: the man and the little boy and the tiny dog. Inside the tiny kitchen of Al's trailer, Stevie sat on the floor putting Chester through his full repertoire of tricks while Al whipped up some tuna fish sandwiches. Focusing on the task at hand drove back some of the anger and the hurt. It didn't seem like so long ago that he was Stevie's age, bloodying his fists in squabbles with little snots like the ones he had chase away, thoughtless monsters calling Trudy the very same names Al had heard today.

With a little sigh, he set down two plates, a sandwich on each. He had cut his in half and Stevie's into triangular quarters. He poured a glass of milk for Stevie. For himself, a tumbler of gin. He needed something to settle his nerves and drive away the ghosts.

"Stevie?" Al said. "Lunch is ready!"

Stevie tried to climb onto the offered chair so quickly that his leg fell back and his face contorted with pain. Al scooped him up and seated him. Not even pausing for breath, Stevie fell upon the food, taking large, noisy bites.

Al grinned, momentarily entertained. Then it occurred to him that the child was eating with ravenous abandon. He sat down, bending so that he could look the boy in the eye.

"Stevie," he said; "didn't you have any breakfast?"

"No," Stevie said through a mouthful of bread and tuna. "No breakfatht. Thunday."

Of course. Celestina, devout Catholic that she was, observed the Eucharistic fast. Still, it wasn't like her to make her child go without.

"What about supper?" Al pressed. "Did you have any supper last night?"

Stevie shook his head.

"You didn't have an supper last night?" Al clarified.

Again, Stevie shook his head.

Most people would have interpreted this as a lapse in memory, or a lack of understanding. Al knew that Stevie was as truthful as he was selfless. He got to his feet.

"Stevie, I'm just going to go and see your mama," he said. "You stay here with Chester, okay?"

"Yup, yup," Stevie said, taking the milk in both hands and gulping it down.

Al left the trailer and strode as quickly as he could to the end of the street. The door to Celestina's trailer hung open, and he thumped once on the wall before opening the screen door and stepping inside.

She was sitting at the table, her head in her hands. As he entered she looked up with a gasp of fright that changed to an expression of profound worry.

"Esteban?" she cried. "He is hurt? He is lost?"

"No, no," Al soothed, taking one step forward to put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "He's at my place. I was coming home with Chester when I heard—when I bumped into Stevie. He's having lunch with me, but—"

Celestina slumped in her chair, and tears began to fall. "Gracias, señor," she breathed. "Gracias."

Al knelt down. "Celestina, what's wrong?" he asked gently, looking up into her eyes.

"Nothing," she tried. "There is nothing—"

He shook his head. "No, tell me what's wrong."

"I have lost the job," she said despairingly. "The job at the bakery. Now we have no job, no money, no bread. Poor little baby…"

She started to cry in earnest now. Al gathered her into his arms much as he had her son.

"You don't need to worry about money," he said. "Come on, Celestina, don't cry. Everything will be fine. You don't need to worry."

"I try—I try—" she stammered. "I go to dry cleaner's. Sign say 'help wanted'. But they give me form to fill out. How can I get a job if I do not read English so much? How do I feed my baby?"

Al looked at the table, where a job application form lay beneath a stubby pencil. In large block letters, Celestina had written her name and address, but the rest was blank.

"Okay," Al said. "Okay, I'll tell you what. You come over to my place and join Stevie and I for lunch. Then he can play with Chester and you and I can work on that form. Okay?"

She raised her head, wiping the liquid from her eyes. "Sí, sí, okay," she said. "Muchos gracias, Señor Calavicci. Usted es un ángel."

Al laughed. "Not likely," he said.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

"What is ref-er-rance?" Celestina asked, looking over Al's shoulder as he filled in the application.

He leaned towards her a little. "That's me," he said.

She frowned in confusion. "You?" she asked.

"Yeah," Al said. "See, a reference is somebody who knows you. Someone you've worked for. When a guy looks to hire you he wants to know how you've done on other jobs. Wants to get an idea of what kind of a worker you are."

"I a good worker," she said. "I work hard, always work hard."

"Yes, of course you do," Al said. "And that's exactly what I'll tell them when they call."

"But… but I have not worked for you," Celestina protested.

"Sure you have," Al said, starting in on his personal information. "I hired you to look after my dog for a whole week while I was gone on my honeymoon. Don't worry about it: I'll give 'em a reference you won't believe!"

"I… gracias, I think," Celestina said.

"Shucks, it's nothin'," Al told her. Having finished with his home number he added the outside line that fed to his office up at the Project—though strictly speaking he wasn't supposed to give that out to anyone.

"Gracias," Celestina repeated, getting to her feet.

"What're you doing?" Al asked.

"I clean the dishes," she told him.

Al laughed. "No, no," he said. "You're my guest, and—"

Celestina shook her head. "You feed me, feed Esteban, give food for tonight, money to buy more tomorrow. I clean the dishes."

Abruptly Al recognized the quiet pride in her eyes; the refusal to be treated as a charity case. He knew exactly how she felt.

"Okay," he said. "The soap's under the sink. I'll finish this up."

By the time Al had completed the application Celestina had long since dispensed with the dishes and wandered into the bedroom after Stevie. Al followed, stopping on the threshold at the sight before him.

Curled on top of the coverlet in a pool of sunlight was Chester, resting against Stevie's stomach as the little boy slumbered in his mother's arms. Celestina, too, was asleep, the lines of worry erased from her face.

As Al watched Chester raised his head, ears perked. Seeing his master, he got to his feet and hopped to the floor, trotting over and putting his forepaws on Al's calves and wagging his tail eagerly. Al bent a little to pet his head.

"C'mon, fella," he murmured. "Bath-time."

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM

Al drifted towards consciousness. The dull roar of a Cougar was moving overhead. He turned his face so that the sun beat down upon it, shielding his eyes with his hand. A Cougar.

A key in the door. Lisa. He grinned. Lisa Sherman, his Amazon princess.

Then he heard Chester's bark of greeting and awoke with a start. Sharon!

The room was dark, and night had fallen, but in the glow of the television Al could see his wife making her way down the hallway, towards the bedroom. He scrambled to his feet.

"Sharon, hang on!" he hissed, trying desperately to sort out his thoughts and decide how to deal with this. She was going to misinterpret what was going on.

He caught up to her, and grabbed her elbow, but not before she switched on the light. Al stared in wide-eyed amazement, then laughed a little in sheer relief. Celestina must have left, not wanting to wake him. She had even straightened the bedclothes. There would be no need to defend his actions tonight. No cause for Sharon to be jealous.

She was, however, glaring at him suspiciously. "What?" she demanded.

Al grinned. "Welcome home," he said, improvising like a pro. "I was just going to take Chester for a walk in the moonlight, if you want to come."

"Ooh, a moonlit walk through Hooverville, how romantic," Sharon mocked.

"There are good people in Hooverville," Al told her. A walk past the Penjas' trailer would reassure him that everything was going to work out. "And it's still the same moon, here or on the Rue de la Paix."

Sharon laughed her rollicking laugh. "Who can resist a line like that?" she asked. "Just give me a minute to powder my nose."

She slipped away and into the bathroom. Al looked down at Chester, who had heard the word "walk" in close conjunction with his name, and had his nylon leash between his teeth, eyes bright with expectation and tail whipping madly from side to side.

"You know," Al said, listening to the sounds coming from behind the flimsy door and thin wall; "I don't think she's actually powdering her nose."

Chester's tail wagged all the harder.


	7. Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

In Al's admittedly extensive experience, the first months of marriage were the easiest. His early days with Beth had been as close to paradise as he had ever come or was ever likely to come again. He didn't remember much about his first months with the Hungarian—didn't remember much about that marriage as a whole, really—but he was pretty sure that they had involved a whole lot of really excellent sex. As for Ruthie, well, the marriage hadn't made it past those first months, but that was really nobody's fault, and the first six weeks had been great. It took time for a relationship to degenerate into squabbling and discord. Therefore he wasn't surprised that 'round about the three-month mark (the same time as the last one had been filing for divorce), he started to see Sharon in a new and unpleasant light.

Sexy she was. An artist she might be. But Sharon Marie Quinn Godolphin Calavicci was also a slob.

It took time for her true colors to surface. In the beginning she seemed to fight her natural impulse towards slovenliness, but as she grew more accustomed to her surroundings and began to settle into the trailer and accept it, on some level, as home, this restraint gradually dissolved. It first manifested itself as a complete obliviousness to the strewn and crumpled clothing that greeted them almost every morning. Al didn't have a problem with picking up her cast-off garments along with his—after all, _he_ was the one who'd remove them in a frenzy of mounting passion, and it wasn't exactly a two-person job to deposit yesterday's laundry in the hamper. Heck, he didn't even mind washing all the clothes: he did that better than she did anyway. But it was discouraging to come back from a long day at the Project to find a sink full of dishes, food carelessly left on the counter to spoil, socks discarded willy-nilly around the living room. She never even _thought_ to take out the trash. She didn't wipe down the shower, or even the bathroom floor, when she was through with it. Her van needed a good vacuuming, her makeup kit was full of capless lipstick and broken applicator brushes, she never wiped the dust from her feet before tramping across his clean kitchen floor—

Al was starting to think like his last mother-in-law, which was, perhaps, the most frustrating thing. Until, that is, the day he came home and found that she had been using his clothes as backdrops.

Sharon didn't actually have, nor as far as Al could see had she ever had, a real job. She taught three classes per term at the community center, and made the odd buck on custom bodywork. Perhaps (he couldn't prove it, but no more could he discount it) she even occasionally sold some of her work. Mostly, however, she lived off the proceeds of her divorce, carefully invested for her by her brother and supplemented regularly. Having married out of high school, and then divorced Heinrich Godolphin when she opted to go to college instead of pursuing a quiet career as the wife of an oil-baron's son, Sharon had done quite well by way of a lump settlement. She had also traded two hundred bucks' monthly alimony for marriage to Al, which at least explained how she had managed to eat over the last twenty years. She occupied most of her time with her art, and it was usually in the bedroom-turned-studio that he found her when he returned home in the evening.

Today was no exception. She was sitting with her back to the window—the largest window in the house and the primary reason, so she said, that this was the space where she had to have her studio. Her easel was set up in front of her, and she was daubing brilliant orange oil paint onto the canvas. The strong chemical smell filled the hot air, stirred up and circulated by the electric fan blowing on Sharon's bare heels. In front of her on a TV-tray was an assortment of fruit and vegetables. Under these, draping up and over a chair, was one of his shirts.

Al glanced at this oddity, then looked at his wife. "What's up?" he asked.

"Uhm," Sharon replied, fixated with her painting. Al wandered into the room, circling behind her to glance at the conglomeration of geometrical shapes and dissonant colors. It didn't look much like the display in front of her. Sharon seldom used models when painting: her work was, she said, an expression of her mind and not of the real world. Models were reserved for her dramatic charcoal, which she loved as a change from the norm, and the occasional watercolor, which she explained were dull as hell but good exercises in composition, and sometimes saleable.

There were a couple such watercolors on the cinderblock-and-board shelves lining the walls. Al glanced at them. Desertscapes and vases full of flowers: the sort of paintings you would find in family motels and old folks' homes. Leaning against the shelves were canvases of Sharon's other work; the more interesting and less fathomable stuff. There was an abundance of the abstract variety, all vivid and vibrant and emotional despite their lack of coherent images. Stranger still were her surreal paintings. A starry sky with a harlequin doll fading in or out of reality. A roiling magenta ocean beneath a robin's-egg-blue sky. A window reflecting in intimate detail everything behind you: the entirety of a quaint living room, complete with an old television set. Al found that one uncannily disturbing. It mocked him: he could see but not be seen. He had consciousness but he did not exist. The picture screamed that he was nothing: just a mind without matter. A powerless observer without substance.

Shivering, he turned away, and found one of Sharon's older pieces. In an empty room sat a doll, illuminated by a shaft of light. She wore a tattered blue dress edged in lace. Her arms arced outwards, hands held up in her lap. She smiled her sweet pink smile. One blue eye glittered in the sunlight. The other was a gaping socket through which a ragged, spreading crack in the back of her head shone.

On the whole, Al liked the modern stuff better. He turned back to the artist and put a hand on her shoulder, smoothing the hair away from her neck. He bent and kissed the soft pink flesh behind her ear.

"It almost finished?" he asked.

"Almost," Sharon answered, tapping carefully at one corner with a brush bearing blue. "How was your day?" she queried.

"Long. Stressful." Al kissed her again, and this time she leaned in towards him as he did so, her hand still navigating the shoals of her imagination. "I've got this one scientist, a computer expert, who just isn't fitting in. If he wasn't such a drip I'd be able to help him integrate, but… aw, you probably don't want to hear it."

"You're right," Sharon said mildly. "I don't."

"Thanks. I feel valued," Al grumbled.

"Mm-hmm," she hummed, obviously much more interested in what she was doing than in any advances of his.

Al crossed the room to draw up the other stool. He sat upon it, resting his booted feet on the bar near the bottom. He began to undo the front of his uniform shirt.

"You're sexy when you're painting," he observed presently.

"Uh."

He grinned to himself, laughing a little. She definitely had a one-track mind. Mind you, he thought as his eyes raked over the curve of her thigh, so did he…

At last she got up and put her brush in the turpentine, then leaned against the window to scrutinize her work.

"Gorgeous," she said. "I love it when it works."

Al got to his feet and moved to join her, taking the opportunity to curl his arm around her waist. He looked at the mass of shapes, most of them rounded. Offset slightly right of and below center was a bizarre purple blob covered in black splotches and deep wrinkles.

"It have a name?" Al inquired.

" 'Still Life With Eggplant'," Sharon announced.

Al cocked his head to one side. "Looks more like an obese baby orangutan with a bad case of pellagra," he teased.

Sharon's mouth shriveled into a prune of fury and she stomped out of his grasp. "Well, I wouldn't expect _you_ to understand!" she snapped. She flounced indignantly out of the room.

Al watched her denim-clad rear as it retreated, gnawing his lower lip in admiration. Left alone, he turned back to the picture. 'Still Life With Eggplant', huh? Well, _he_ certainly didn't see it.

There wasn't even an eggplant in her little display, he noted with some annoyance. He picked up the apple set on top of the heap of fruit and bit into it. Crisp and sweet: perfect. Annoyed at the wrinkles Sharon had put in his shirt, he eased it out from under the rest of the food and made his way into the kitchen, where he plugged in the iron. Sharon was in the bathroom, going at her hands with the pumice stone and soap.

At length the iron warmed up, and Al set about smoothing the ugly creases out of the soft cloth. The lively colors of the pattern danced pleasingly before his eyes. Most people didn't appreciate the true beauty of color. That was what was nice about Sharon. She wasn't scared of color.

His eyes snagged on something that didn't quite fit: a color that didn't belong. It took a moment for it to register, and his eyes narrowed with anger when he realized what it was. There was a yellow blob of paint on his shirt.

He picked up the cloth and rubbed at it. It was definitely oil paint. Enraged, he scrubbed uselessly at the splotch. She had attacked his shirt with dirty hands, and ruined it!

Sharon came out of the bathroom, twisting her hair back into a sheaf of frizzled curls. "What were you saying about how sexy I am?" she asked.

Al was in no mood to mince words. As if treating the house like her personal dumping ground wasn't enough, _now_ she was wrecking his clothes!

"You wanna explain this?" he snapped.

"Explain what?" Sharon asked. "I needed a backdrop for the arrangement, and that was perfect."

"Oh, you needed a backdrop," Al mimicked. "So you took one of my shirts and smeared paint all over it?"

Sharon frowned in puzzlement. "Paint?" she echoed, stepping forward. She glanced at the offending spot. "That? It hardly shows!"

"That's not the point!" Al blustered. "How many other shirts have you spoiled?"

She bristled at the confrontation tone. "I did no such thing!" she exclaimed. "You probably did it yourself."

"Hah! _I_ don't paint!"

"Yes, you do!" she said. "You spent a whole term painting! You're actually pretty good, if you'd just stop feeling all self-conscious and admit it!"

He threw down the shirt that had been the catalyst for the now very sidetracked argument. "Self-conscious? I'm the least self-conscious guy you're likely to meet!"

"Egotistical and self-confident aren't the same thing!" Sharon bit back. "You're always second-guessing yourself and trying to bellyache about something you did or said. You won't believe me when I say your stuff is good, and you won't even let me put it up!"

"Put up your own paintings!" Al snapped. "And while you're at it you could start putting away your own laundry and washing your own dishes!"

Sharon adapted to the change of tangent as well as he did, springing down his throat with the vehemence of an angered she-bear. "I do my fair share of the necessary chores around here!" she cried. "So you can take that line and shove it!"

"Fair share? We'd be up to our armpits in your socks and underwear if it wasn't for me!" Al roared. "You're the messiest broad I've ever come across! How the heck didn't you get evicted for being a public health hazard? Do you even _know_ how to wash dishes?"

"Of course I know how to wash dishes! There's just no point doing it!"

Al was rendered momentarily speechless with that blasphemy. "No point? No point?" he wheezed when he found his voice. "You ever eaten off of dirty dishes?"

Just the thought sent a shiver of revulsion up his spine. A memory of desperation chilled him.

"So if I need a dish I wash it!" Sharon said.

"And the rest of them sit in the sink, rotting?" Al demanded.

"I didn't mean I never wash dishes, you stupid fool!" Sharon snapped. "I mean what's the point of my cleaning up? Anything I do you find fault with and do over!"

"I do not!" Al retorted.

"Do too!" Sharon shouted. "If I put away the laundry, you're in there a half-hour later re-folding stuff! If I clean the bathroom I find you on your hands and knees scrubbing some little spot I missed! I wash the dishes, and you're rearranging the cupboards! God! It's like living with my mother! And let me tell you, I haven't done _that_ since I was seventeen!"

The truth of her accusations didn't derail Al's fit of temper. "If you'd do things right the first time, I wouldn't have to do them over!"

"Look," Sharon snarled; "I know in the _Navy_ they're more anal than a constipated city counselor, but out here in the real world we have better things to do with our lives than clean the kitchen floor with a toothbrush! You want to keep this dump looking like the Ritz on welfare, go ahead, but don't expect me to bend over backwards!"

"Like it or not, Sharon, this is your house, too, and if you can't be bothered to—"

"_House?_ That's a good one! Next thing you'll be telling me what a nice neighborhood we're living in!"

"There's nothing wrong with the neighborhood!" Al roared.

"Oh, yeah? Junkies and Indians and illegal aliens! Nothing wrong with the neighborhood at all!" Sharon cried. "I can't believe this! You're a Naval captain and the director of some top-secret government thing, and we're living like a couple of Mexican street-sweepers!"

"We also happen to be a single-income household, and half my salary goes to alimony payments!"

"Oh, _well_!" Sharon snarked. "If you weren't such a flighty, philandering, inconstant lecher…"

"Look who's talking, Miss 'Paint With Your Libido'!" Al exclaimed. "How many guys did you sleep with last year? Or couldn't you find anyone who'd get past the smell of old socks and decaying dishes?"

"I'm amazed a man like _you_ can find women at all!" Sharon retorted. "You think we dream about decrepit old soldiers covered in scars? You still paying off the last wife for agreeing to sleep with you? Two hundred a month that the court hasn't even ordered—"

"Ruthie deserves it, it's my money, and I don't see what your problem is!"

"My problem is that I'm living in a trailer in the slums so that she can pay her fancy big-city gigolos!"

"You don't know anything about Ruthie!" Al roared. "You wouldn't understand her even if you met her: she actually knows how to use a broom! And not the kind you fly away on, either!"

"Ooh, well, if you're so in love with Saint Ruth, why aren't you still married to her? She cheat on you? Wouldn't blame her!" Sharon cried. "Bet the one before Ruth cheated on you too. And your first wife! Didn't she run off with some lawyer after you left her?"

"I didn't leave her!" Al roared. "God damn you, I didn't have any choice!"

"Well, obviously she did, and I can see exactly why she didn't choose _you_!" Sharon snapped.

There was a moment of dead silence. Her words had struck Al like a boot in the gut. He stared at her, his mouth working noiselessly. Sharon watched him for a moment in mute surprise, perhaps aware of the ugliness of what she had just said. In the end, though, she was unwilling to take it back. She thrust out her chin.

"If you don't want me to touch your shirts, get them the hell out of my studio," she snapped. Then she turned on her heals and marched back into the one-time master bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Al stood for a moment, frozen in pain and disbelief.

He hadn't even really thought about Beth for a year. He certainly hadn't felt this kind of agony at her memory for a long time. Overcome with sudden weariness, he sank to the ground with his back against the cupboards and his stained shirt in his lap.

A wet nose butted his hand, and a soft tongue lapped against his fingers. Al looked down his face at the woeful eyes fixed upon him, eyes that clearly communicated confusion at Master's hurt and an innocent desire to ease it. Al lowered his leg and patted his thigh. Chester hopped into his lap and settled against his abdomen, still licking Al's wrist as he petted the ruddy fur. The consolation that came from the attention of this absolutely accepting and totally loving soul blunted the edge of the knife twisting in a wound that should have been old enough to have healed by now. Al let his hand fall into his lap, and still Chester caressed it with his hot little tongue, asking nothing more than acceptance of his loyalty and love.

It occurred to Al as the anguish began to give way to other black thoughts that this was the first fight he and Sharon had had that hadn't ended with the two of them making mad, passionate love. And he couldn't even remember what they had been fighting about.


	8. Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

Al hated to admit it, but he wasn't really listening. Doctor Demeter was giving his weekly report—usually a fascinating highlight of Wednesday afternoons. Today, though, Al's mind really wasn't on his work.

He was thinking—no, _fantasizing_—about Sharon. Last night… well, last night had been _great_. He licked his lips a little at the memory. What a woman, what a woman!

It had been days now since their mutual eruption, and although some part of Al's mind knew that the fight had marked a change in their relationship it certainly hadn't prevented them from getting it back on the next day. And the day after. And the day after that, too.

Al rubbed his hand over his chin, his eyelids fluttering as he tried yet again to make sense of what Demeter was saying. It was a pointless endeavor. All he could think of was Sharon and the fun that he was going to have when he got home…

Doctor Eleese posed some question that Demeter answered brusquely. The two department heads were not especially fond of each other. Eleese found Demeter to be pedantic and closed-minded. Demeter resented Eleese's higher status within the project hierarchy. The reality that her work had more direct importance to the primary goal of the Project than his did irked the older scientist. Al had insight into both their characters that others lacked, since both of them used him as a sounding board for every little problem and frustrations.

AL looked down a the pen hovering over his steno tablet. There wasn't really any need for him to take notes: all meetings were audiotaped for the archives, and Eulalie was present to transcribe the most important points. He liked to have paper on hand, though, because sometimes an urgent thought would flicker into being, to be lost forever unless you caught it on paper.

Al didn't think his memory had always been so unreliable. As he recalled, there had once been a young Bingo Calavicci who had pursued his degree in chemistry, learned all there was to know about every combat plane that the Navy would let him near, and still never forgotten a woman's name. When he tried to figure out when this forgetfulness had begun, he ran into darkness. It seemed everything was clear as day before '67. Of his years of internment he remembered everything in graphic, painful detail, when not actively beating back the misery and the terror. . It was after repatriation: the stress of his NASA days, his second wive—what's-her-name, the Hungarian. That was when he thought it had started. Must've been one hell of a bad marriage.

Al wondered why he was having such trouble focusing now. Aside, of course, from the fact that he'd much rather be at home right this instant, playing dress-up with Sharon…

She looked _fantastic_ in her itty-bitty little baby-doll nighties. Not many women her age could pull off clothes like that (of course, the real fun wasn't her pulling them off, but _him…_). The way her generous bosom supported the diaphanous folds of the soft pink fabric…

Abruptly, Al realized that the room had gone absolutely silent. He looked around nervously, but no one was looking at him. All eyes were fixed on Doctor Eleese, whose turn it evidently was to speak. She was standing with her weight on one him, the other foot thrust forward forcefully. Her arms were crossed over her chest, its curves made almost androgynous by the lapels of her clinical white coat. Her lips were thin with disapproval, and she was staring resolutely at the ceiling tiles.

"_Well_, Doctor?" Demeter pressed. "Are you going to share your report, or are we all going to sit here and gather moss?"

Doctor Eleese turned her patented look of exasperation upon him.

"I'm not giving any report until Captain Calavicci is prepared to condescend to listen to it," she said coldly, favoring Al with a thin-lipped glare. "If what I have to say isn't worthy of the attention of the Project Administrator, I don't see why the rest of you should have to be subjected to it."

So saying she gathered up her papers and the ubiquitous stainless steal clipboard, and swept out of the room with her lab coat billowing behind her.

There was a pause, during which Al wondered frantically just what had tipped her off to the fact that he wasn't listening. After a moment Doctor Demeter got to his feet and left the room, followed by his assistant.

Doctor Thorgard cleared his throat. "She has a point, Captain," he said mildly.

Adrian Thorgard was a chemist of international renown, and he had been on the government payroll for fifty years. He was one of those people life never seemed to phase. Even now, stroking his white beard and looking around the half-empty table, he did not seem angry, only factual.

"We put in the effort of preparing the reports. You_ could_ do us the courtesy of listening to them."

Al blinked mutely. Coming from a man he liked and respected, these unobtrusive words shamed him far ore than Eleese's prideful posturing and Demeter's frigid silence.

Then Thorgard smiled. "Of course," he added with a twinkle in his gray eyes; "if I had a lovely young wife like yours, I'd be easily distracted too."

Al smiled. At least one member of the brain trust wasn't going to hold this slip-up against him. Thorgard got to his feet and departed. One by one the others followed, until Al was left alone, sitting at the head of the table with his blank steno pad in front of him. Suddenly he felt very tired. He supposed he must be getting old.

He fought that thought back with a bullwhip, one of those long, snakelike horrors with a shard of broken glass knotted into the tip. The kind that stripped away the skin and cut you to the dermis. The sort of whip that could kill a man in less than an hour. You were only as old as you felt, and for crying out loud, he had a girl at home who wore baby-doll nighties! He was sixteen, seventeen, tops.

The thought of Sharon and the sleepwear she almost never actually slept in brought a longing smile to his lips. He wondered if there was any way he could cut out early and head home.

Abruptly, Al realized that he wasn't actually alone. One of the scientists had lingered, lurking nervously at the boardroom door. It was the small, curly-haired computer programmer.

"Doctor Gushman," Al said flatly. "What can I do for you?"

"C-capt… C-c-c-c-c-cap—" Gushman stuttered.

"Captain Calavicci," Al finished wryly. "That's my name. Don't wear it out."

Gushman blushed a brilliant scarlet, and Al regretted his cavalier tone. He indicated the chair at his left hand. "Have a seat," he said amicably.

Nervously, the scientist obeyed. He fidgeted, not quite able to meet Al's eyes.

"You have a concern you'd like to voice?" Al asked.

"I—I—I—y-yes," Gushman stammered. Al wondered if it was just nerves after all, or a speech impediment.

"Well, that's what I'm here for," he encouraged. "Any time, any problem. No job is too small for the Project Administrator. Think of me as the Lone Ranger—without the mask, the horse, the gun, and the faithful companion."

Gushman laughed a little, still not meeting Al's eyes. "I wa-wanted to…" He swallowed hard. "I want to res-res-resign," he said.

"Resign?" Al echoed. "But you were so anxious to come on the project. You've only been here a little over a month. Is it that bad?"

Gushman's throat palpitated as he bobbed his head. "I don't f-fit in," he forced out. "I want t-to resign."

Al got to his feet and gave the other man a bracing pat on the shoulder. "Come on," he said. "Let's go grab some coffee and talk about it."

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

Topside they kept more regular hours than the throngs of researchers below the surface, and the restaurant was very quiet at three in the afternoon. Al and Gushman sat in an isolated booth, nursing indifferent cups of coffee and having a good old man-to-man chat. At least, that was the charitable way of looking at it. A more accurate picture was that of a dentist of words, painfully extracting every phrase from an unwilling patient.

In the end, though, Al managed to get most of the picture. Essentially, Gushman didn't feel like he belonged. The other scientists, his peers, seemed to look down upon him. This was no surprise to Al, who had noticed before today their penchant for calling him "the technician". This rejection made Gushman perpetually nervous, and so his stutter grew more pronounced. Because of his difficulties communicating, his staff was starting to lose respect for him too, and he had caught them mimicking him and circumventing his instructions. The archival staff were reluctant to give him access to their files, and even when he could get in they weren't helpful in finding the information he needed.

Through this halting litany of complaints Al thought he detected another problem altogether. Gushman was lonely. He had come from a tightly-knit community of a dozen grad students into this enormous and socially diverse Project, and he was finding it difficult to reach out to the total strangers with which he was surrounded. As a result, he was bitterly unhappy, spending his days battling with the unending problems of his work, and his evenings alone, holed up in his tiny quarters. This was why he was having so many issues getting along with the Project staff: he was a fish out of water.

Almost literally, Al reflected unkindly, watching as Gushman gulped out another stinted sentence. He took a long drag on his coffee, wishing it was something stronger. A little bit of whiskey went a long way to speeding up a slow afternoon.

"I understand that," Al said; "but I don't think resignation is the answer."

Gushman stared into the depths of his coffee. "Then what is?" he whispered. It was the first sentence he had got through without stammering.

"I don't know," Al admitted. "But we can work something out. You need to give Starbright time, just the same as everyone else needs to give you time. You've got a lot to offer us. You're one of the top programmers in the country, probably in the world. Give it a chance. We need you here."

Gushman looked up, his eyes so full of mingled emotions that Al felt suddenly very uncomfortable. "Really?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a fishhook in my eye," Al said, raising his right hand as if taking the Oath in court.

Gushman laughed a little, still nervous but no longer paralyzed with fright. "I-I-I'll try," he said, then nodded and repeated more firmly; "I'll try."

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

Heading for the liquor cabinet for a quick whiskey was a habit Al had developed at Lakehurst. It was an excellent way to wind down after a long and frustrating day training the arrogant and often foolish new pilots. Since hooking up with Sharon Al had had better means of unwinding, and the old ritual had fallen by the wayside. Today, however, he really needed a good stiff drink, so he made a beeline for the cupboard in which he kept his booze.

He had just poured himself a tumbler of the Olympian nectar when Sharon's voice filtered through from the studio. "Al? Is that you?"

Al took a hasty mouthful of the liquor. Ruthie had always hated it when he drank, and so he found himself instantly bristling into defensive mode. "Yeah, babe, it's me," he called.

"Oh, good," she said.

There was a silence, during which Al knocked back another couple of ounces and topped up. That way he could come out with the "just one" line and still imbibe a decent amount.

He stiffened as Sharon's footsteps came down the hallway. She came around the corner from the living room. She was wearing a miniskirt covered in brilliant patterns and a very low-cut blouse.

"Hey, sailor," she said, draping her arm around his shoulder and leaning her hip in against his. Al curled his free hand around her waist and she kissed him. "Mmm…" she sighed, her tongue flickering over his lips. "Had a little spot of something?" she asked.

Surprised, Al held up the glass of whiskey. She looked at in and grinned. "A fine idea!" she exclaimed in a thick Irish brogue. "Whiskey and romance!"

To Al's absolute astonishment, she took the glass and took a deep swig of it, closing her eyes in pleasure.

"You… you like whiskey?" he stammered.

"To be sure, to be sure," she said, still laying on the affected accent. "Would Paddy Quinn's only daughter not be likin' her hair o' the dog?"

Al laughed. "Just when I think I know who I married," he mused.

"Faith, but you married an Irishwoman!" Sharon said. "You wicked highway robber, coming into me fither's inn to steal his whiskey! I've a mind to scream for the Redcoats, for it's thinkin' I am that you've designs upon me virtue!"

She wanted to play! Al's grin broadened and he gave her a forceful kiss that she resisted delightfully. "You must join me for a drink, milady," he said.

"No, I shall not!" Sharon cried melodramatically.

"You must," Al said. "Or…"

Chester came into the room, weaving a little and blinking drowsily.

"Or I'll sic my mastiff on you!" Al finished, pointing at the dog.

Sharon whirled with a gasp, looking at Chester as he leaned forward on his forepaws, stretching his back with his tail high in the air. "Such a fearsome beast!" she cried, then turned back to Al and picked up the bottle. "Then indeed, sir, I must, for I fear nothing so much as a mastiff!"

They moved to the table, and Al poured more whiskey. He gave Sharon the glass and took the bottle for himself. "To us!" he said, saluting her with it.

"Faith, sir, but I hardly know ye!" Sharon demurred. She clinked the glass against the bottle and drained half of it.

Grinning enormously, Al took a long, satisfying swig from the bottle. He could feel the fire moving down into his stomach and beginning to erase the sour taste of the day. "You're quite a woman," he told Sharon.

"That's how they make 'em here a' the Emerald Isle," Sharon lilted.

Together they polished off that bottle and started on another. They sang together, laughed, continued their playacting. It seemed the highwayman was a lovable rogue, and the innkeeper's daughter not quite so virtuous as she made out. Eventually they found their way up to her humble room above the stables, followed by the bewildered barking of the mighty mastiff. Al stumbled a little on the threshold, more inebriated than he had been for a long time. Sharon caught him clumsily, laughing as her hand closed on his buttock. He kissed her sloppily, and she dragged him into a deeper osculation, one hand clutching each side of his head. This left his hands free to unzip the miniskirt and start to work on the blouse.

Chester yelped in protest, having been quite forgotten in the mounting and increasingly drunken passion. He ran forward, putting his paws on Al's leg and wagging his tail petulantly. His master was too fixated by his mistress's lingerie to notice, and his mistress was occupied with removing Master's uniform. As they spun around and his footholds were snatched from under him, Chester left the room. He went into the kitchen and lay down on the floor, his soft brown eyes fixed on the cabinet where his food was kept. In his haste to greet Mistress, Master had forgotten that Chester needed to be fed.


	9. Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

An air raid siren was going off in his ear. Al moaned feebly and pulled himself into a knot. Damn, his head hurt. Damn, damn, _damn_…

He slapped his alarm clock and the siren stopped. Then he rolled towards Sharon's warm body, wrapping his arm around the soft flesh of her abdomen. She moaned softly and buried her face in her pillow. Damn, his head…

Clumsily, Al tried to sit up. The vertigo hit him like a brick wall and he fell back with a groan of sheer agony. There was a large brass band of the junior high school variety playing "The Anvil Chorus" between his ears. He tried to remember what kind of wild bender had landed him with a hangover like this. It came back in a rush that caused almost as much pain as the alarm had. He raised a shaky hand to his forehead. God damn it. God damn it.

He had to get up, though. He had to go to work. Al rolled out of bed, landing on the carpet with a jolt of nausea. He choked back the bile rising in his throat, and started to crawl towards the door. You just had to get moving. Get the blood pumping. Then soon you would be able to get to your feet and find some aspirin.

From the burning in his stomach he knew he'd be needing antacids, too, but he didn't think there were any around. Have to stop by the clinic once he got to the Project…

Al shuddered convulsively. The last thing he wanted to do was suffer through another day like yesterday. One thing after another, Doctor Gushman eating up most of his afternoon, Doctor Eleese's snide comment about his daydreaming. Ugh. He should never have left NASA.

He'd _had_ to leave NASA, he reflected fuzzily. He couldn't remember why, though. Something to do with his second wife? Or his health… under minimum weight? No, that was before, the early months… wasn't it?

A rough pink tongue caressed his face. Al groaned and tried to turn away from it. Didn't the damn dog know that he was hung over?

Chester batted his shoulder with one paw and nudged him with his nose. Al raised an unsteady hand to pet the dog. "Be alright in a minute, boy," he rasped thickly. The words heightened the headache, but he wasn't going to give in to it. Grabbing the doorpost, he dragged himself onto his knees, and then managed, painstakingly, to stand. His legs shook under him and the nausea wasn't abating. He choked down the urge to vomit. God, he hated that feeling, like a clammy hand constricting his throat. He knew he'd feel better once he ralphed, but it just wasn't worth the misery of the act itself. He had tossed his cookies way more often than any man should have to, and he resisted whenever he could. It reminded him of things he wanted desperately to forget.

The headache, now, he could do something for the headache, if only he could resist the urge to chunder. Al staggered to the kitchen and rooted around for a glass, which he filled from the sink. The aspirin was in the cutlery drawer. He shook out two tablets and forced his teeth to unclench long enough to place them on his tongue. Cautiously he washed them down with the minimum amount of water. When this didn't bring instant gastric rebellion, he took another wary sip. Then another. The third sent his stomach roiling afresh, and so he stood there clutching his abdomen with one arm, the other hand clamped over his mouth, as he told himself, over and over again, that he wasn't going to throw up.

Eventually the feeling abated, and Al switched on the light. The clock told him he was going to have to get his act together if he planned to make it up to the Project by eight. He moved unsteadily towards the bathroom, arrested mid-step by a yelping bark from Chester. Annoyed, Al turned slowly, raising a hand to his thrumming temple. Chester wagged his tail eagerly.

"What?" Al grunted. Chester's tail was now working so furiously that his hindquarters were shaking with the force of its motion. He seemed happy enough, so Al turned around and resumed his journey towards the head.

Chester howled piteously. Al bit his lip. All this spinning around was making him dizzy. "_What_?" he repeated heavily.

He could hear Chester panting eagerly. Another anxious bark tore the air.

"All right, all right," Al muttered. He stumped back into the kitchen. Chester pranced eagerly around his heels, almost tripping him. Al caught himself on the counter, grunting a little as his head sent up a fresh throb of protest. He made it through the narrow entryway to the door and held it open. Chester scampered out into the predawn grayness.

Al tried to remember what else had to be done for the dog. Water… sure enough; Chester's metal bowl was bone dry. A horrific wave of contrition washed over Al, bringing him to his knees as surely as the light-headedness that wouldn't allow him to bend. Poor little guy. Al knew what it was like to be helpless, desperately thirsty but unable to do anything to obtain water. Anything but stare up at the stark jungle sky and beg it, frantically and feebly, for the blessing of rain.

Trying to shake off the association, he ran the tap as cold as he could and filled the dish, setting it on the floor. He hadn't even checked last night to see if Chester needed more…

He realized that he hadn't fed him, either. At least, he didn't _think_ he'd fed him. Things were a bit blurry… He decided he probably hadn't, selfish hedonistic creature that he was. He rummaged in the cutlery drawer again, this time coming away with a can opener. As he was opening the tin of dog food he heard movement in the bedroom, followed by a heavy moan and a gagging cough. As quickly as he could Al deposited the brown mass into Chester's dish. Simultaneously he could hear Sharon running for the bathroom. The combination of the sharp smell of the meat-like product and the sounds of Sharon's retching proved too much for his stomach, and Al dove over the sink, his whole body shaking with the force of the emetic heaves. So much for the aspirin.

When he was done he ran the water to wash away the mess, and splashed some on his sweat-coated face. With a moan of despair he sank to the floor, hugging his legs to his chest and burying his head in his knees. It was all flooding back. Interrogation session under Major Quon's personal supervision. Hanged by his ankles from the rafters of the bunker, beaten by that cruel black-eyed bitch and the members of her unit. Quon sitting there, smirking, with his little whore on his knee. Head thick and heavy with pooling blood. Pain in every quarter. Finally Al couldn't help it anymore. He vomited up everything that was in him, the scant contents of his shrunken stomach spilling from his mouth and his nose without discrimination: the remains of the rancid rice he'd been allowed last night, the foul water he had sucked back in desperation this morning, the sodium amytal syrup he had fought so hard not to swallow half an hour ago. That made them angry. It hadn't stayed down long enough to start working. The Bitch gave a sharp order, and the blows began to rain down in earnest. Bamboo rod against his naked back. Rubber whip with sundering force over one kneecap. Her boot, his face, now intimately acquainted. It wasn't long after that that, still conscious enough to feel shame, he lost control over every voluntary muscle in his body.

A whimper of misery escaped his throat.

"Me too," a female voice said, thickened and slurring dully. Al looked up with a gasp. Sharon. She got down next to him and cuddled close, resting her sore temple on his shoulder. "That was some party, though," she added with a rueful chuckle.

"Yeah," Al mumbled. "Yeah. Party."

The feel of her skin against his was taking the edge off of the memory. He uncurled a little and drew her closer, stroking the soft curve of her hip and smelling the fragrance of her hair. He let his aching head fall forward onto hers. His lips caressed her forehead.

A yelp from outside made Sharon sigh in exasperation. "Stupid dog," she muttered.

"I let him out," Al grunted.

"Well, I can't let him in."

"It's oh-five-thirty. Who's gonna see you?" Al asked, hauling his leaden skull off her shoulder.

"Chivalry is dead," Sharon mumbled, but she climbed painstakingly to her feet and moved slowly towards the door.

The reminder of the time forced Al to his feet. His hands were shaking and his head throbbed. On the table was the empty whiskey bottle. Its mate, still almost half full, lay nearby. A little pick-me-up would take the edge off of the pounding headache. Al poured himself a good three ounces in the lipstick-smeared tumbler and sipped gingerly at it. His stomach gurgled for a moment, then quieted. Carefully, he drained the glass, by which time Sharon had come shuffling back into the room, rubbing her eyes. Chester scampered towards his water and lapped eagerly at it.

Warm arms twined around Al's waist, and Sharon's chin rested on his shoulder. "Let's get back to bed," she whispered. "It's too early."

Al shook his head. "I gotta go to work," he said.

"So take a sick day," she said. "If you've got a headache like mine, you can't work anyways."

"Project Administrator can't call in sick," Al muttered, but the tender hand working its way up and down his abdomen was weakening his resolve with each pass. It would be delightful to spend the whole day in bed with his beautiful bride, instead of living from antacid to antacid in a drab office, trying to quiet the pounding in his skull so that he could focus on external headaches.

"Who says?" Sharon asked. She rocked, navigating them both towards the phone. She put the receiver in his hand. "Go ahead. Call in sick."

The seductive voice of the temptress in his ear and the firm hand guiding his finger towards the dial won him over. His wrist twitched five, six, seven times. Eight, nine, ten. Eleven. Then again, entering the code that would put him through.

The phone on the other end rang. Sharon lifted the receiver to his ear and helped him hold it there, her mouth working on the crest of his shoulder blade, caressing it with slow, hungover kisses.

"How may I direct your call?" a very neutral voice said.

"It's… uh…" Al licked his lips and coughed a little to clear his throat. "It's Captain Calavicci, Norma. Put me through to H.R., please."

The tone changed drastically. "Al! Good morning!"

"Mornin' to you, too, sugar," Al said. Sharon tightened her grip on his chest, possessively but fondly, and started to kiss the back of his neck.

"Password?" she said.

"Angel eyes," Al delivered. The password function had been his idea. Though the location was never announced over the phone, operators had been wont to put people through to internal departments with only the most cursory proofs of identity. For the more professionally minded there was a six-figure combination of letters and numbers. For those who couldn't remember such sequences (or who, like Al, enjoyed a little harmless flirtation with the support staff) there was the more suggestive version.

Norma giggled. "Why, thank you! Human Resources, right away."

There was a beep, and then another ring. And another.

"Human Resources, Penvenen speaking," said a cool, clinical voice.

"It's Captain Calavicci," Al said. "I'm… I'm under the weather today and won't be able to make it in."

Sharon rewarded his fib with a nibble on the ear.

"Under the weather, sir?" Penvenen asked. Al tried to call to mind his face, but without success. Mind you, if the man usually worked the night watch that wasn't surprising.

"Yeah," Al said, now glad of the thickness in his voice that gave credence to the story. "Must be some kind of flu bug or something. I'm puking my guts out."

"I'm sure," Penvenen said inscrutably. "I'm sorry, sir, but who should I inform?"

Al thought about that. The effort started up the pounding in his head again. "Ugh—tell Prysock, and… and my secretary. Anyone else can hear it from them. Oh. And Wendell. Tony Wendell from Aboveground Development. I'm s'posta meet him for breakfast."

"Very good, sir. May I ask when you expect to be ambulatory again?"

Al cast his eyes heavenwards. _This_ was the kind of guy his buddy in Washington thought was perfect for keeping the staff happy? "Soon's I can. I'll call again if I can't make it in tomorrow, either."

"Thank you, sir. Get some rest." The voice was still dispassionate, despite the personable sentiment.

"Yeah, thanks, Penvenen. You have a first name?"

"Yes."

The line went dead. Al whistled softly, the high-pitched sound starting up only the slightest discomfort in his head. "What a stiff," he muttered.

Sharon laughed a little, then flinched. "Damn," she said. "That was one hell of a party."

Al chuckled. "You want some whiskey? It helps."

Sharon pulled away from him, holding her stomach. "Ugh. No way, José. Bed. Bed."

Al nodded. "Bed," he agreed, wrapping his arm around her shoulder. Leaning on one another, they made their way to the bedroom and lay down. Out of deference to their mutually headsore condition they settled for a little medium-to-light petting before drifting back to sleep.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

At his desk in the Human Resources office on Sub-Level One, Dan Penvenen scribbled himself a reminder to call Prysock, Wendell and Calavicci's secretary. Then from his bottom drawer he removed a black archivist's notebook and turned to the end of several pages of detailed notes. He added another ten lines detailing the time and circumstances of the call, and sketching out his personal feelings about the situation. If there was one thing they taught you it was how to follow, but not be led by, your gut.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

Al laughed as Sharon dipped his hand into the dish of blue paint.

"Feel the color," she urged, raising his hand to the board bearing the heavy paper. "Don't think it, _feel_ it."

"Feel it," he echoed. She released his wrist and he drew it in a broad arc, his fingers smearing the pigment across the blank expanse, staining it forever with the mark of his gesture.

"There!" Sharon exclaimed. "Again!"

Al complied, drawing his hand upwards and creating a bold line perpendicular to the first and far straighter. The effect was that of an empty crucifix with a drooping crossbar. Not pleased with this association, Al dipped his fingers again and brought a series of loops from the top left corner to the bottom right.

"Yes, yes!" Sharon cried. "Good! Passion, emotion!"

Al paused, torn between laughing at her reaction and planning his next move.

"Don't think!" Sharon cried. "Do! Be!"

Al translated his laugh into a sharp parabola. "When can I change colors?" he asked.

"You're thinking too hard!" wailed Sharon. "Just _feel_ it! Loosen up and go with your emotions! Emotion is art!"

"Emotion is art," Al echoed, frowning in concentration. Her playful smack caught him off guard, and he tried to retain his balance by thrusting out his arm. The result was a large blue-and-white handprint in the midst of the paper.

"See!" Sharon cried triumphantly. "You see what you can do when you just stop thinking?"

Al regarded the paper, and had to admit that there was something very appealing about the collision of fantasy and reality. He extended his pinkie finger and made seven quick, feathered strokes in a vacant corner, each fainter than the last.

"Yes! Beautiful!" Sharon cheered.

"Didn't realize painting was a spectator sport," Al commented fondly, leaning back into her arms.

"Art is all about the relationship between Creator and Observer," she said.

"Well, Observer, I think the coffee's ready," Al said. "I like mine black with two teaspoons of Sweet 'N Low."

"I know you do, and that's disgusting," Sharon informed him. "I'll bring you your mug full of toxic chemicals, but if I get back here and see that you've been _thinking_…"

"Beheaded at dawn," Al said. "Yeah, I know."

Sharon moved off. It was the strangest sick day he'd ever had, Al reflected, absently tracing a spiral into one of the thicker patches of blue. Headache gone, stomach almost normalized, and now he was sitting in the afternoon sunlight—_painting_. He imagined Colonel Smythe would blow a gasket if he found out what his Naval counterpart was up to. Not to mention Prysock. Al chuckled at the thought of his deputy, his hand roaming over the canvas of its own accord. His hand was running low on paint, so he dipped it again, just the fingers this time, and bunched them together. Once on the paper he sprung his hand open. The result was a five-pronged starburst with a dense blue nexus and fading extremities. Very pleasing. With his left hand he scraped away some of the paint at the base of his ascending column, leaving pale marks.

"Perfect!" Sharon cried. "Enough! Stop!"

Al spun on the stool. "Stop? But I was just starting to enjoy myself."

"It's perfect! Stop!"

"Hey, it's my picture."

Sharon's eyes narrowed. "A _picture_ is taken by an idiot with a camera. _That_ is a _painting_."

Al chuckled. "Okay, okay. I forgot I was living with the Art Nazi. C'mere with that coffee, gorgeous."

She hesitated. "You'll get paint on the mug," she warned, nodding at his blue hands.

"It's my mug," Al said blithely. "Now _c'mere_!"

She approached, sitting down on his lap. She had an old paintshirt on, so he didn't hesitate to wrap an arm around her waist as he took the beverage, spinning back to face his work.

"That was fun," he conceded. "If you'd told me yesterday that finger-painting was for grownups, I would've called you crazy."

"I am crazy," Sharon said, giving him his coffee and sipping at hers.

"Now there's a frank admission," Al said.

She tossed back her head. "I'm crazy, you're crazy, we're all crazy!"

"You bet," Al said, kissing her neck.

There was a fond silence.

"You know what I would kill for?" Sharon asked.

"No. What would you kill for?" Al queried. "And more importantly, who would you kill for it?"

"Not you," Sharon promised. She sighed dreamily. "Something fat-filled and deep-fried and sugary."

Al laughed. "I'm for that," he said.

She twisted in his arms, trying to get a better look at him. "Really?"

"Yup," he said, kissing her neck.

"You trying to fatten me up so you can cook me into gingerbread?" she asked suspiciously.

Al favored her with a throaty chuckle. "No." He hugged her closer to him, caressing her hip. "What I've got here is so good that I could do with a bit more of it to cuddle."

"Hah! Well, aren't _you_ the perfect husband?" Sharon exclaimed.

"How perfect?"

Before she could show him, the doorbell rang.


	10. Chapter Nine

CHAPTER NINE

Sharon groaned. Al laughed a little and pecked her on the cheek. "I'll get it," he said, standing up while raising her to her feet. He left the room, taking another mouthful of his artificially sweetened coffee. He moved through the kitchen and opened the door.

On the cinderblock stoop stood Stevie Penja, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. Behind him was Celestina, looking uncommonly radiant. Her hair was freed of its customary knot, brushed out in a raven-black curtain. Instead of her customary assortment of ill-fitting, third-hand housedresses, she wore a fine linen blouse hand-embroidered with roses, and a red circle-skirt with a deep ruffle—probably her wedding clothes, carefully preserved to serve as Sunday best for the rest of her life.

"Hey!" Al exclaimed, smiling broadly. "My two favorite people!"

Celestina blushed very becomingly. "Today I get first cheque at new job," she said proudly. "Buy food, even put money away for the rent. So I say, I make churros for kind Señor Calavicci who helps me with form, makes sure we eat when I have no money, tells Senor Andriuk how I am good worker."

She held up a platter covered with a faded tea towel.

"Churros? Seriously?" Al asked.

"Sí, sí, yes," Celestina said.

"And chocolate!" Stevie added, holding up a covered bowl.

Al laughed. "Celestina, you're the answer to a sick woman's prayer!"

A concerned frown lit upon the pretty face. "Señora Calavicci, she is ill?" she asked anxiously.

Al gestured vaguely. "Uh, we're both a little under the weather today," he said. "C'mon in!"

He flattened himself against the wall, holding the door to admit his guests. Celestina herded Stevie ahead of her with one hand. Al closed the door, instinctively bolting it, and followed them into the kitchen.

"Sharon just made coffee," Al said. "You want some?"

"Sí, Señor Calavicci, that would be very nice," Celestina said.

"How 'bout you, Stevie?" Al asked. "You like coffee?"

"Yucky!" Stevie said, setting his burden on the table next to the covered platter.

"Esteban!" Celestina admonished. "We say no, thank you to Señor Calav—to Mister Calavicci."

Al grinned and patted Stevie's shoulder. "It's okay. I was just teasing him. You'd rather have milk, wouldn't you, sport?"

"Yup, yup," Stevie said, grabbing the edge of the table and bending to look underneath. With a puzzled frown, he looked up at Al. "Chethter?" he said.

Al whistled. "Chester! Here, boy!" he called. "Chester!"

Obediently, the terrier trotted into the room, his tail whipping from side to side and his ears at attention. He ran to Al and stood up on his hind legs, forepaws on his master's calf. Stevie crowed in delight and squatted down on the floor, petting Chester with clammy but fond hands. Like his owner the dog saw not the boy's handicaps, but only his huge capacity for love, and soon Chester was absorbed in Stevie, licking his hands and nuzzling his knees.

Celestina watched for a moment, misty-eyed, then turned back to Al. "Señora Calavicci, she is sleeping?" she asked.

"Naw," said Al. He looked towards the hallway. "Hey, Sharon, come here!"

An annoyed voice drifted back, loud and strong. "I'm not the dog, Al! You wanna talk, you come here!"

Al flashed Celestina a sheepish half-smile. "Darling," he called, in a singsong voice with just the smallest hint of tension; "we have company!"

There was a silence, and then Sharon came into the room, grumbling as she went. "What do you mean, company—oh!"

She stopped abruptly when she saw Celestina. There was a moment of silence as Sharon took in the visitor's youth, her radiant smile, and her beautiful clothes. A self-conscious hand raked through Sharon's unbrushed hair, then tugged at the frayed hem of her stained paintshirt.

"Uh… hello," she said awkwardly.

"Señora Calavicci," Celestina said, dipping a quick curtsey.

Al smiled broadly. "Sharon, this is Celestina Penja. She lives up the street."

"Sharon," she said flatly, shaking hands with the other woman. "Pleased to meet you."

"And you," Celestina affirmed. "Your husband is very good neighbor, very good friend."

Sharon shot Al a strange look. "I imagine he is," she said, rather frostily.

"Celestina brought us a present," Al said, moving to the fridge to dig out the milk. "Churros."

Sharon frowned. "What?" she said.

Celestina beamed proudly. "Churros. Mexican treat," she said. "You put them in chocolate."

"You'll love 'em!" Al promised. "Does the dip need warming?"

"In this heat? Are you kidding?" Sharon asked, her aspect brightening a little at the mention of chocolate, but still wary.

"I think it is still hot," Celestina agreed. "Esteban, come to the table."

"Esteban?" Sharon echoed in puzzlement.

"Stevie," Al said, nodding at the boy as he got awkwardly to his feet. "Stevie's my best buddy, aren't you, sport?"

"Betht buddy," Stevie agreed, climbing onto a chair. Al set the milk in front of him, noting happily that Sharon's aloofly hostile expression had softened drastically at the sight of the child.

"How do you like your coffee?" he asked Celestina.

"Very much, _gracias_," she answered. "It is nice treat."

Al chuckled and rephrased the question. "What do you like in your coffee?"

"Nothing, _gracias_, nothing. Only coffee," she told him, uncovering the dishes.

Sharon approached, her interest piqued. "What _are_ they?" she asked.

"Pastry," Al said. "Pan fried and rolled in sugar and cinnamon. To die for."

"Well, they look lovely," Sharon said, pulling out a chair for Celestina. Al brought the coffee pot to the table and topped up his mug and Sharon's.

"Señor Calavicci says to me you are a painter," Celestina told Sharon.

"She is, she's a very gifted artist," Al said, dipping one of the horn-shaped pastries in the dish of chocolate and giving it to Stevie before taking one himself.

"Art-ist," Celestina repeated. "A great art-ist like Señor Dali."

"You know Salvador Dali?" Sharon asked.

Celestina nodded. "Once there was an exhibit in Santa Fe. Carlos and I, we go to see the paintings. Beautiful. Magical."

"Dali's a genius!" Sharon exclaimed, a blissful smile spreading across her face. "Is Carlos your husband?"

Celestina nodded. "Sí, yes, Esteban's papa." A shadow of sadness flashed across her face as she sipped her coffee. Then she smiled again. "Perhaps I can see your paintings?"

Sharon blushed a little, clearly flattered. "After coffee and cher—ch—"

"Churros," Celestina said.

"Churros," Sharon repeated.

Satisfied that the girls were going to get along, Al turned his attention to Stevie. Soon they were occupied in one of their impromptu lessons in spoken English.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

When they were done eating, the small party moved into the studio. Sharon began to show Celestina her work. Al settled on the floor with Stevie, and the two of them started giving Chester a very vigorous belly-rub while they continued their exercises in linguistics.

"Oh, I love it!" Celestina said presently, stroking the glazed surface of the living room window painting. "A house, such a pretty house."

Her voice took on a dreamy lilt. "Some day I wish to live in such a house."

"Don't we all, honey," Sharon said, an underlying sourness infiltrating her words. Then her tone shifted back to brightness. "C'mere! I'll show you one of Al's."

"Hey, hang on!" Al cried, scrambling to his feet. He knew which painting she would show, and he knew what she would say about it. And he didn't know which bit horrified him more.

"Don't be silly!" Sharon cooed. "Why, I'll bet you even forgot to tell her that _you're _a painter, too!"

Celestina looked at him in awe. "Señor Calavicci, you are art-ist also?"

"Naw, I just paint a little for fun. Just for kicks," Al said. "Now, c'mon, Sharon, you don't want to show her that!"

It was too late. Sharon pulled the canvas, his final project from her class, from behind a stack of her own, propping it on one of the shelves. "It's called _San Diego Sunset_," she said. "I made him name it."

Celestina looked at the oil painting slowly, taking it in first in its entirety, then in pieces as she had been doing with Sharon's work—treating it much more like a piece of art than as the half-articulate scrawl of pain and nostalgia it was. A swirl of colors indeed very closely resembling a sunset formed the background. The subject was a woman's pale body, unclothed. She knelt parallel to the canvas with her feet curled delicately under her. Her torso was turned away, her back curving from the hip up the side, facing full to the viewer. Her face turned over her shoulder so that you could see that, in fact, she had no face, but only blankness where one should have been. Her hair was dark and swept her bare shoulders in soft waves. Set in each shoulder blade was an eye, a large, dark brown eye. From each eye a tear was falling, tracing twin rivers on either side of her spine. Her right arm, extended behind her as if to support her in the impossible position she held, leaned against the sunset, and the long, shapely forefinger and thumb clutched a single perfect stem like the scepter of a queen. Its greenness in the swirl of reds and oranges fading to purples and blues was at once jarring and eye-catching. Atop the stem was a brilliantly white flower. A calla lily.

"He won't explain it," Sharon said; "but the way _I _figure it…"

Al flinched and looked away. Here she went again with her story about the inner pain of woman and the lily as a surrogate for a certain part of the woman's anatomy not visible from this angle. He had borne it with good humor in front of the girls in the "Painting With Your Inner Harlot" class, laughing lewdly and stealing kisses from his betrothed to the delight of the other students. But if she said it to sweet, devout Celestina…

To his surprise, the guest interrupted. "I see the lily," she said softly. "So beautiful. A lily for a love lost and dead, but a love that will be found again. Resurrected." She turned to Al and smiled sadly. "Such a beautiful painting, Señor," she told him.

Al swallowed the pain rising in his throat at her gentle words. He reached out and stroked her arm, shaking his head. "Lost and dead, maybe," he said; "but that's all. It's not coming back."

Celestina mirrored his gesture. "No," she said. "Lilies are in the church at two times. For funerals, and at Easter. Both are times to mourn death and to celebrate new life."

Al looked at the painting, trying to see it through Celestina's eyes. All he saw was the imperfection of it: the one shoulder longer than the other, the smudge of blue where there shouldn't be one, the hair that didn't quite capture the essence of that soft cloud of faultlessness he remembered. It was nothing but a pitiful attempt at faking a gift he didn't have.

"Mama, see!"

Stevie's happy voice tore through the solemnity of the moment. "I painting!"

"_Sí, mi amore_, many paintings," Celestina said absently, still gazing at Al's picture.

Sharon let out a yelp of shock, and set the canvas unceremoniously on the floor. Al and Celestina turned to follow her horrified gaze.

Stevie had acrylic finger paint all over his hands, his face, and his shirt. There was a blue handprint on Chester's head, and another on the carpet—and several more on the paper Al had just finished with.

"Painting!" Stevie announced happily, smearing his fist across the easel.

Forgetting he wasn't versed in her native tongue, Celestina began to upbraid the child in frantic Spanish. Sharon surveyed the damage in horror.

"God, what a mess—no, stop it!" she cried as Stevie reached for the paper again.

Al swooped in before Celestina could get her hands on the boy and gathered him into his arms, very glad that he was still wearing his own paintshirt. He laughed, and so did Stevie, leaning forward to embellish the top of the picture. "It's okay, sport! We'll paint this one together, huh?" he said.

"Yup, yup!" Stevie said blissfully, concentrating on his work.

"Oh, Señor, I am so sorry!" Celestina sobbed. "He does not know, he does not understand, please, I am sorry—"

Al shifted Stevie's weight against his hip and caught her wrist. "You listen to me," he said. "It's fine. Absolutely fine. He didn't hurt anything: it's just something I was doing for the heck of it."

"No?" she whispered.

"No. Absolutely fine."

"Are you kidding?" Sharon wailed. "Would you look at this mess?"

"We can clean up the mess," Al said, picking up the palette and letting Stevie dip his hand again. "Really, Celestina, it's no problem."

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

By six Stevie and the studio were cleaned up, and the guests had left. Sharon leaned against the kitchen counter, watching Al scrub the paint out of Chester's fur.

"You know, I've never liked kids," she said pensively.

"Aw, lighten up," Al said. "He didn't hurt anything."

"Huh. He reminds me of Rich when _he_ was that age. Hell on wheels. I thought maybe a retarded kid'd be less trouble than a normal one."

"Don't say normal," Al told her sharply. "There's no such thing as normal. Anyway, Stevie wasn't trying to make trouble. Finger-painting and stuff—it's what they do with him at school. He just thought that's what the easel was for. Besides, it was my mine, not yours: it's not like it was something serious."

She launched herself forward and leaned on his shoulder. "It could be serious if you'd just let it," she said. "That painting you didn't want me to show, it's really good."

"I don't want to have this argument tonight," Al said flatly. Really, the last thing on earth he wanted to do was discuss that picture, especially with his wife. The safe atmosphere of the art class, where anything went and everything was okay, didn't exist here. It wasn't Sharon who had made the safe space, but the feel of a roomful of people all sharing intimacies in a completely vicarious way. There the painting had been something to laugh about. Out in the real world, it betrayed entirely too much about its creator.

"Then what do you want to do tonight?" Sharon asked, kissing the side of his face and clutching the crest of his hipbone.

"I was thinking, how 'bout we go out to eat?" Al said. "There's this Italian restaurant I've been meaning to try."

"I'm a meat 'n potatoes kind of gal," Sharon said.

"We'll do meat and potatoes next time. You got yourself a half-Italian husband, you'll eat Italian tonight." Al grinned rakishly at her. "Man of the house insists."

"And afterwards?" Sharon asked slyly.

Al wiped one sudsy hand on the towel next to the sink, and cupped it around one of her perfect breasts. "Use your imagination," he said, and he kissed her.

Chester shook himself indignantly, spraying water and bubbles in every direction.


	11. Chapter Ten

CHAPTER TEN

On Fridays the aboveground pilots did test runs. By the time Al arrived in the morning, the first of them were starting. He parked the Corvette and sat back in his seat, watching the sleek silver plane of the day zip down the runway and take off with the grace of a swallow. It would rise above him, circling to find the path of least resistance, and then accelerate, travelling faster and faster until it vanished into the rising sun or the retreating blue of the west or the crimson hues to either side. It was a glorious sight. Inspiring. And though he wouldn't admit it, it made him jealous. He wished he was up there in that sleek aerial bullet, not sitting on asphalt about to descend into the depths of the earth to spend his whole day in confined corridors and tiny offices.

Eventually, as always, he tore himself away and went inside to meet Tony for breakfast. An apology for his tardiness was on his lips, but it proved unnecessary, because Wendell hadn't shown up yet. Al ordered coffee and a French omelette and sat back to wait. The food came, but his friend didn't. Al ate leisurely, but there was still no sign of Tony. Then he realized that he hadn't informed him that he was up and about—as Penvenen had put it, _ambulatory_—again. He finished his meal and set off for the elevators.

When he reached the Administration Wing Eulalie sprung from her seat. "Oh, Captain!" she exclaimed in a breathless whisper. "Thank goodness you're feeling better!"

Al chuckled as he sauntered over and petted her cheek. "Take it easy, kiddo. It was just a little stomach bug. Nothing serious."

"No, no, you don't understand!" she said. "Senator Shevchuk! The Committee!"

Al's brows furrowed. "Huh?"

"Senator Shevchuk arrived yesterday!" Eulalie exclaimed. "He wasn't happy you weren't around, not at all!"

"What? Why didn't anybody tell me? I would've broken out the dress whites and the fancy hardware."

It was Eulalie's turn to look puzzled. "But I asked H.R. to phone and let you know."

Al paused for a moment, then shrugged. "Aw, well; must've got lost in the shuffle. Listen, honey, has he said what he wants?"

She shook her head. "He and Commander Prysock were downstairs for most of the day. I don't know what was going on. He spent the night in the executive suite, and he should be up here any minute."

"Well, I'll be waiting," Al said, kissing her hand with a flourish and moving for his door. "Send him through when he's ready to face me."

Inside, he did a quick sweep for dust and debris, gave his nameplate the quick spit-and-polish treatment, and settled down at the desk to start methodically on yesterday's accumulated paperwork.

Not twenty minutes had passed when there was a sharp rap on the door. "Come in!" Al said cheerfully. The knob turned and the head of the Senatorial committee in charge of Starbright entered.

In another lifetime, Maxwell Shevchuk had been a starting quarterback at Notre Dame University. He still retained the memory of those glory days in his powerful shoulders and immense bull neck, but too many years of good home cooking and desk job after desk job had eaten away at the rest of his physique. He carried a lot of weight in the Senate—most of it around his middle—and most people found the combination of his build and his personality intimidating.

Al Calavicci was not most people.

"Good morning, senator!" he said sunnily, looking up briefly from his work. "Eulalie told me you were in the neighborhood!"

"Good morning, Captain," Shevchuck boomed, far less chipper than the Naval man. "You're looking well this morning."

"Much better than I was yesterday," Al said, not falling for that one. "My wife takes good care of me."

"I'm sure. I was disappointed when you weren't here to greet me yesterday."

"Yes, I'm sorry about that," Al said blithely. "Next time call ahead, and I'll be sure to schedule my illnesses around your visits."

Shevchuck scowled at the subtle dig. "The amount of money that we're shelling out for this little project, Calavicci, I think we're entitled to stop by whenever we feel like it."

"Oh, absolutely," Al agreed. At least, his tone suggested he agreed. In reality, he found these visits to be an immense nuisance, and wished to God that he didn't have to deal with them, especially without warning and at a time when he was already a day behind. "Did Prysock take good care of you?"

"He was most helpful. I see you took the time to train a competent assistant."

Al tried to read into the tone there, not sure if it was praise or criticism. "Well, when your subordinates can do their job, life's easier for everyone. As I'm sure you know, managing your own staff."

Shevchuk grunted in acknowledgement, then wandered over to the cabinet full of physics texts, chemistry manuals and scientific journals. "The Committee is concerned with the lack of progress Starbright has shown over the last few months," he said. "I am here to make sure that the public's money is going to good use. As soon as you can spare a minute, I'd like to take a walk through the bottom floor and see what's going on down there."

"I'll have to file for clearance and get you a badge," Al said. "That'll take at least an hour, if you want to go grab a coffee or check out the action on the surface or something."

Shevchuk deposited his not inconsiderable mass in the chair across from Al's desk, folding his arms resolutely over his barrel chest. "Oh, no, Captain, that won't be necessary," he said. "I'll just wait here until you're ready for me."

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWMWMWMWMWMWMWWM 

The Senator was clearly not pleased with what he saw. After spending most of the day dragging Al through every single department, interrogating the staff and disrupting operations so much that they'd be lucky to be back on schedule in a month, he delivered his ultimatum.

"The Committee is convening to discuss your continued funding in the third week of January," he said. "By the first of the year, you will have to submit to us a full report on the Project's operations and progress. I want to see detailed statements from every member of staff with a clearance level higher than four. Each of the department heads must submit a full-length report. From you personally I expect a detailed but succinct summary of the composite findings—no grandstanding, just the facts. I'll have my office send over a full syllabus on Monday."

Al grinned enormously to hide the sinking feeling that came with the realization of just how mammoth a chore this was going to be. "Okey-dokey!" he said. "You'll forgive me if I don't see you off? I really should get back to my duty rosters."

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM

It was Al's first taste of what it really meant to be the head of such an enormous and diverse project. He started putting in at least four extra hours a day—sometimes not getting home until three in the morning. Saturdays were spent at the Project, too, catching up on the routine stuff that fell by the wayside as he scrambled to assemble the folio demanded by the funding committee. Every minute became precious, and luxuries like breakfast with Tony were no longer possible: he had to sacrifice them in favor of the far more valuable luxury of twenty more minutes' sleep. He often missed lunch, and not infrequently supper. It seemed like he hardly ever saw Sharon except when they were making love, which they did less frequently now but still often enough. Indeed only their liaisons and the roaring drunkenness that had become their Saturday nights was keeping Al sane. She was always fun, but when they were both three sheets to the wind… well, it was a blast!

It took some of the edge off of his working stresses, but could not completely counteract the pressure he was under. Extracting these statements from the staff was exactly like trying to get homework assignments out of a twelfth-grade English class. There were a few keeners who handed them in early, proofread and well written and in general ready for summarizing and duplication. Then there were the workhorses, who got them done, well and properly, exactly on time. There were the ones who slapped them together at the last minute, but still got them in on time. Then, of course, there were those who blew the whole thing off, and had to be hunted down and threatened into delivering.

The worst trouble came from the heads of the departments. They all felt themselves far too busy to be bothered with such ridiculous exercises. Al couldn't even really argue that: it _was_ a waste of everybody's time. Except, of course, if they didn't deliver they'd have problems with the Committee, which would mean hard feelings at best, and funding cuts or even termination of Starbright at the worst. So he gritted his teeth, squared his shoulders and took the hard line with them.

It was on this topic that he had to speak to Doctor Eleese one Tuesday in October. She was down in the bowels of the synchrotron, only just visible from the observation deck where Al paced. Normally he loved Sub-Level Omega: it was a stunning blend of the mechanical and the theoretical aspects of science; ultimately concrete and ultimately abstract. Today it was an annoyance. He was tired, he was hungry, his back hurt from endless hours at his desk, and all he wanted to do was go home and curl up in bed with Sharon. He couldn't do that until he lit a fire under Eleese, and he was expecting a heated battle over that.

Presently one of the techs stepped out onto the floor far below, tapping his boss on the knee. She sat up, frowning. The kid explained hastily, pointing up to the Plexiglas window behind which Al stood. Even at this distance he could see Eleese scowl as she bit back. Al frowned back, gripping the railing in an imperious stance. She lay back under the laser, but after a minute she reached for the panel she had removed and began to replace it.

Al pinched the bridge of his nose, just below where the pain in his frontal lobe was smouldering mercilessly. He dragged in a deep breath and tried to forget how weary he was and how much he wished he didn't have to do this. He was going to have to be at his fighting best when she got up here, because God knew she would be.

Sure enough, she came striding onto the deck with her demands on her lips. "What do you want? And why do I have the feeling it's not important enough to drag me away from my work?"

"Good afternoon, Captain. How are you today? You're looking devilishly handsome, if I may say so. If there's one thing I can't resist, it's a man in uniform," Al said with good-natured sarcasm.

Donna Eleese frowned. "If you came down here for compliments, you're wasting your breath," she said.

"Relax!" Al said. "I'm not trying to put the make on you. I'm a married man, remember?"

"That doesn't seem to stop you from flirting with every female on the property," the scientist observed.

"You know, there's something I've always wondered about you," Al quipped conversationally. "Did you burn your bra back in the glory days, or have you ever worn one at all?"

The permafrost surged to the surface, forming an intractable shield over what was still a stunningly beautiful, intelligent face. "Captain, I don't need to put up with this. If you have something to say to me, I suggest you say it before I file complaints of harassment and unprofessional conduct."

"You wouldn't do that," Al said. Cold fish she might be, but Eleese wasn't the kind to go running to Human Resources with lies and unjustified accusations. "Fact is, you enjoy biting my head off as much as most ladies enjoy the compliments. I'm just giving you what you want, same as I do the rest of the girls on the Project."

Her lips thinned and twitched menacingly, but she schooled her features. "What I _want_," she said scathingly; "is an opportunity to get back to my work. So please get on with it so that I can pretend that this conversation never happened."

"You're late with your report," Al said abruptly, opting to stop mincing words. They were going to do enough bobbing and weaving over this one without prolonging the prelude any more. "I want it on my desk by noon Friday."

"That's impossible," she said. "We're eighteen tests behind, and I don't have time to start writing novels for you."

Al choked. "You haven't _started_ yet?" he cried.

"No, I haven't. So what?"

"So, I've got to get that thing to the Committee! Are you trying to kill me?"

"That would get you out of those hearings," she pointed out. "Not to mention my hair."

"If you don't get that report together they could shut us down. It's mighty hard to run acceleration tests on the unemployment line," Al pointed out.

Eleese turned up her chin in that very becoming way she was wont to when waxing defiant. "There may be a surplus of womanising Naval captains," she said; "but quantum physicists are in short supply. I assure you, Captain, I would have no difficulty finding work in the private or academic sectors—even supposing that the government wished to terminate my contract. I'm not as dispensable as you think I am."

"You're not as indispensable as you think you are, either," Al pointed out. "I wouldn't have a hard time finding somebody qualified to replace you, which I might have to do if you don't start acting like more of a team player."

"That's an empty threat," she said dispassionately. "You wouldn't be able to find anyone to replace me."

Al frowned. He couldn't call her bluff: he had no idea if she _was _bluffing. It was something, he decided, that he should really look into someday when he had some free time. A voice in the back of his head cackled unpleasantly. Free time? What was that?

"Maybe not," Al said. "But if you don't get us that statement, I won't have to replace you, because the whole thing will be shut down. Come on, Doctor. Starbright's your brainchild as much as it anyone's. Do you really want her to be run to the ground?"

"It's ridiculous that they can't see we're making progress!" Eleese snapped, her frustration suddenly shifting from the handy scapegoat to a target nearer the source of the stress. "We've just reached a plateau! Those meddling bureaucrats are too impatient to have anything to do with scientific exploration!"

"Maybe," Al said. "So tell them that. Put it all in your report. Just write it. I don't care what you say!"

"Oh, really?"

"Really! I don't care if you get your secretary to write it! Just get it done!"

She looked at him coldly and inscrutably, and for a minute Al thought he had won. Then she smiled in a very self-satisfied manner. "If I have time," she said, then turned on her heels and vanished around the corner.

Al allowed himself the luxury of slumping against the wall, his headache thrumming afresh. He was so damned tired.

His stomach was growling, so he made his way towards the intolerably long staircase leading up to Sub-Level Six. By the time he reached the mess hall on Sub-Level Five he was shaking a little with enervation. He went through the cafeteria line, which at this time of the day wasn't much of a line, flirting almost automatically with the pretty blonde working behind it, then found his way to his customary table in the back corner. Try as he might, though, the chicken confetti held no appeal. He took two mouthfuls before he couldn't even taste the flat tomato sauce and the bland vegetables anymore. All he could feel was the starchiness of overcooked rice. It was lukewarm and had been left to sit too long… rice… cold, dirty, mouldering rice…

He swore he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and he dug hastily into the food, looking for the source. He shivered. He was losing his mind. That bit of black pepper looked like the tip of a weevil's leg… He hated rice… God, how he hated rice. If he could just have something else, anything, anything at all. A bit of stale bread or an old, woody radish or a scrap of cast-off meat. If he could just once taste _something_ that wasn't this mass of cold, glutinous grain, then he could die happy…

With a convulsive shudder, Al pushed the dish away. He held his head in his hands again. So much for eating. His appetite was gone. He got to his feet and trudged out of the room.

Halfway back to the elevator that would carry him back up to his office, Al had to stop. His legs wouldn't hold him up any longer. He was so tired, so damned tired. He knew he needed to eat something, but the thought of food was turning his stomach. His hands shook a little as he raked them through his hair. The short sleeves of his uniform seemed suddenly inadequate to keep him warm. He hugged his torso, trying to warm up. What he needed was a good stiff drink. That would wake him, warm him up, give him the energy to make it through the long, laborious evening ahead. Maybe with a little pick-me-up he could actually buckle down and accomplish something. But, of course, there was no such thing as a liquor store out here, and he sincerely doubted that the likes of Eleese and Gushman would have quality whiskey lying around their quarters—much less be willing to share.

Quarters. Al smiled. His quarters. There was a bottle of scotch there, a promotion present from Mac. He'd had a nip of it that day, months ago, when he'd brought Sharon here to show her the Project. It was still almost full. All he'd need is a glassful. Just one glass, and he knew he'd start feeling better.

The cheerful thought gave him the strength he needed to reach the elevator, and ultimately his disused suite. There it was, just as he had left it. He poured half a tumbler and drank it slowly, relishing the flavor and the bracing heat that spread from his torso into his limbs. His legs stopped shaking. The tremors in his hands were gone. He felt like a new man.

Al toyed with the idea of a second glass, but opted not to. Break time was over. He had to get back to work.

He put the bottle back in the cupboard in the little kitchenette.

He left the suite and locked the door.


	12. Chapter Eleven

CHAPTER ELEVEN

With an exhausted moan of pleasure, Al rolled onto his own pillow. He shuddered a little, and then began to snore softly.

"Well, that's romantic," Sharon said aloud. Leaning out of bed to retrieve her nightie from the floor. She wriggled into it and stroked the damp curls from her husband's forehead. "I guess I should be grateful you didn't fall asleep _on_ me, huh, tiger?"

He didn't answer, of course. She twisted a little, draping her arm around his head and bending to study his face. He looked so pale and helpless lying beside her, not at all the confident, egotistical and energetic man of the daylight hours. The dark shadows that had been growing under his eyes these last weeks seemed more pronounced now that the flush of passion was fading from his cheeks. Slumber did, however, ease the sharpness of the lines showing beneath his cheekbones—a gauntness as new as the shadows. He had been working too hard lately. Much too hard, and now it was starting to take its toll. He wasn't as young as either of them wanted to think he was, and he couldn't keep up this pace forever. Besides, it wasn't fair to her, either. He was hardly ever home, and when he was, he was too tired to do anything but make love. In that respect, at least, he seemed to possess boundless energy, but when the moment of passion was past he would slip into a near-comatose slumber that struck Sharon as a sign of absolute weariness.

Spending the better part of her days alone in this miserable trailer was beginning to wear Sharon's patience thin. All very well for Al, who did little more than eat and sleep here (and eat only rarely, now that he was working sixteen hour days), but _she_ had to put up with this drab little box day after day. She had tried to brighten it up, hanging some of her most uplifting paintings and replacing some of the thrift store furnishings with newer, brighter stuff, but it wasn't enough. The fact was that it was a small, old, wretched trailer in a park full of small, old, wretched trailers.

Consequently, Sharon had taken to spending as much time as she could in the city. She had a large circle of friends who shared her interests or her outlook or her style, and when there was no company to be found she could see a movie or go shopping or something. She had her three classes, which ate up six hours of the week, and she spent more time painting at the community center than she did in her home studio. She had recently discovered another pleasant pastime: taking Chester downtown and walking with him. He was actually a very good boy, and much better company than no one. By nature a social creature, Sharon did not take well to solitude.

Still, all this was a poor substitute for having a full-time partner, as she had grown accustomed to. Prior to Al there had been a string of artists, actors and musicians, all of whom were available through most of the day, working seldom and certainly not excessively. Sharon was finding it difficult to curb her impulses and train them towards almost exclusively nocturnal encounters with an exhausted sailor. She was not actually unhappy, but she couldn't say that she was perfectly content, either.

Al stirred a little, his lips moving soundlessly. Sharon turned her attention back onto him. He said the most fascinating things in his sleep. Most of his dreams seemed to be bizarre and pleasant fantasies, many of them featuring celebrities or fictional characters, most involving women whose names she didn't recognize, a handful with Saint Ruth his third wife, and even the occasional one featuring her. Sharon liked the last sort best. There was something very alluring about a man you knew dreamed about you, even if he did also dream about half the female population of the States. It was fun, too, to spend the day working out how to bring last night's fantasy (in as much as it could be gathered from his words) to life. If Al realized she was doing it he said nothing, but he always seemed to enjoy those games.

Occasionally he would have nightmares. Some featured mythical monsters: the Minotaur was a favorite, and living mummies, and even Dracula. Often it seemed that he was running from something, or looking for something. He would call out to Beth, whom Sharon was fairly sure he'd once been intimately involved with. He'd alluded once to a Naval nurse who had died in a car accident. Maybe that was Beth. Trudy was another favorite, and she must've been a schooldays sweetheart, because Al was always telling her to do things like wash her hands and eat up all her rice. The very worst nightmares didn't seem to be articulated at all, except in hoarse, desperate screams and sudden, gasping awakenings, wide-eyed and drenched in sweat.

Just now, though, Al didn't seem to be ready to talk. His hand groped the coverlet, and then he lay still again, tired eyes veiled with black lashes. Sharon leaned forward and kissed him. He stirred and muttered something unintelligible. She slipped down so that her head lay on the pillow, and switched off the bedside light. The small room was plunged into darkness.

It was a signal for their nocturnal visitor. There was a jingling of tags and the soft padding of tiny feet on the carpet, and then Chester sprung up onto Al's feet. As far as Sharon was concerned animals didn't belong on the bed, but that didn't seem to influence either the dog or his master. There was no arguing with either. Al would override her with the timeless "love me, love my dog" cliché, and Chester would just keep coming back until she grew too drowsy to kick him off anymore.

Tonight, though, she didn't really mind. It was kind of nice that she wasn't the only one in the house still awake. She clicked her tongue and patted the indent between her hip and Al's. Curious, Chester picked his way daintily toward her hand. She stroked his silky fur, and he turned around three times before dropping down with his head on Al's abdomen and his tail flailing against Sharon's hip.

She petted him for a while, the feel of his warm little body beneath her fingers strangely pleasant. Gradually, she drifted towards unconsciousness.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

A forsaken howl woke Sharon abruptly. She opened her eyes but met only darkness. Something shook the bed, like the first tectonic rumblings of an earthquake. The howl sounded again, high and mournful.

Chester was sitting up, still between her body and Al's. As the dog howled again, Sharon reached out to feel his furry back. He was trembling violently, as if with terror. The bed shook again, a convulsive tremor that made the springs creak. Chester whimpered and scrambled onto Sharon's lap, huddling against her as he usually liked to huddle against Al.

That thought made Sharon grope for her husband, her hand touching his shoulder just as another seizure-like shudder ripped through him. He moaned and shrank away from her hand.

"Albert Calavicci," he mumbled. "Lieutenant. Born 15th June, 1934."

Sharon frowned. He wasn't a lieutenant, he was a captain. They wouldn't leave a lieutenant in charge of a top-secret government project.

"Ser—" He gasped with such force that it sounded as if his lungs were imploding. "Serial number!" he cried. "B-933-852! Albert—"

His limbs jerked against the mattress and a scream tore from his lips. "ALBERT!" he cried. "Albert Calavicci! Albert Calavicci, Lieutenant. Born 15th June, 1934. B-933-852. Albert Calavicci…"

He screamed again, thrashing violently this time. Chester huddled closer to Sharon, whimpering and shaking with fright. Sharon felt her own heart pounding. What the heck was going on?

"No—no—Albert Calavicci! Lieut—eutenant. June… June '34… oh, God, not my feet, not my feet! GOD! NO!"

His legs spasmed, but did not withdraw. It was as if they were bolted to the mattress and could not be moved. Al's howl of anguish brought Sharon's stomach into her throat. She curled both arms around Chester, holding him close. Another scream ripped from Al's throat and he began to hyperventilate.

"No, no, no. I don't know. Dammit, I don't know. Ah! Calavicci. Lieutenant. B-9—STOP! Oh, God, stop it! Please, no, not—" His pelvis arched off of the mattress, falling back heavily. Another scream, then a feeble whimper. "It burns… it hurts…"

He sucked in a sharp breath that came out in another screamed utterance of his name. He seemed to struggle against invisible restraints, trying to swallow the sounds of pain that escaped from his lips regardless. Then he went very still, and a terrified whisper welled up. "No… no… not… no, not my eyes… no… _NO! NO! _No, I'll talk. I'll talk." He sobbed brokenly. "I'll talk. They… they're six miles west of Saigon. I don't know how many. Seventy, maybe eighty. Commander's name is… is Gable. Commander Gable. First name Clark. One suave bastard. Six—six miles west of Saigon. Now in the name of God, _please_—"

He flinched, and then exhaled as if in relief. A muffled moan followed, as his chest bounced against the mattress. Then after a long silence, he curled rapidly into a ball of anguish, and began to cry, rubbing his hands up and down his sides and sobbing wretchedly.

Sharon sat, unable to move, her pulse racing. Chester squirmed against her arms, and wriggled free, springing down onto the mattress. He moved towards Al's face and began to lick it, keening softly as if mourning the nightmare. The sobs stopped abruptly and Al began to shiver. Slowly one hand crept away from his body and found the dog. With a ragged hitching inhalation, Al murmured, "Hey, boy." Chester continued to lap at his tearstained cheeks. Sharon lay down slowly, not sure if Al was really awake, or even if she wanted him to know she'd overheard his nightmare. Al sighed as the dog plunked himself down next to his head.

"Good boy," he whispered. "I wake you up?"

Chester whined a little, almost as if he could understand what was being said. Al groaned softly. "Sorry," he murmured.

Then his hand crept across to feel Sharon's arm. She closed her eyes and lay as still as she could. His fingers scarcely touched her skin before they were withdrawn convulsively, as if she disgusted him. Slowly, Al got up and left the room. Chester sprung up and ran after him. Presently the kitchen light came on, a glow filtering down through the hallway. She could hear him rummaging in the cupboards. Then there was a long silence. At last, the light went out and Al came back into the room. With an almost inaudible moan, he rolled into bed, pulling the covers over his shoulder. Sharon waited for his hand to find her again, so that she could pretend to awaken and they could make love, but he didn't touch her. After a minute, he started to snore quietly again.

Thick on his breath was the smell of whiskey.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

When Al awoke in an empty bed, his first response was to panic. A look at the alarm clock reassured him that he hadn't overslept, but then where was Sharon?

He groaned softly. His head hurt. He dimly recalled getting up in the night. A drink to drive away the dreams. It had been so long—almost a year—since his sleeping mind had taken him back to Vietnam that he'd almost forgot what it felt like to wake up covered in sweat and cold with terror. He tried to remember what specific horror he had been reliving, but then recalled that the whole point of the nocturnal refreshment was not having to remember.

He got up and put on his bathrobe, then shuffled out into the kitchen. Al scrubbed his eyes as he realized that Sharon was standing at the stove.

"What the…"

She turned and smiled, the hem of her nightgown swinging about her thighs. "Good morning!" she said.

Al frowned in bemusement. "What're you doin' up?" he said slurredly. His mouth felt fuzzy and his head ached.

"Making breakfast," Sharon announced cheerfully. "It's the most important meal of the day."

"I'm not hungry," Al said, stumbling to the cutlery drawer and digging out the bottle of aspirin.

"Headache?" Sharon asked, putting her hand to his head. "Maybe you should stay home today."

Al shook his head. "Too much work to do." He moved to the cupboard where they kept the alcohol, and poured out some whiskey. With it he washed down a couple of the tablets, then he hung his head over the sink and bathed his face with cool water. Sharon's skilled hands kneaded his tense shoulders.

"Well, at least you have to have breakfast," she said. "I'm not much of a cook, but I can manage an omelet."

The whiskey eased his stomach and the analgesic was starting to work its magic on his head. Al inhaled the savory smell of Sharon's cooking. "All right," he said. "On one condition."

"What's that?" she asked.

"You'll join me."

She laughed merrily, almost artificially.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

The Corvette pulled away into the predawn darkness and vanished up the street. Sharon went back inside, closing the door behind him. At least she knew he had some food in shi stomach. He had almost stopped eating at home, and she suspected he didn't always make time for food when he was at work. It didn't seem fair that he should have to put in such long hours. There had to be a law against it or something.

It was obviously having some kind of negative impact on his mental health as well as his physical. First his haggard appearance and obvious exhaustion, now bizarre, tormented dreams about Clark Gable. He needed more sleep. Too little rest caused insomnia as surely as too much did. If Al got back to having full nights of sleep, he wouldn't have to use alcohol as a sedative.

Chester stood in the corner of the kitchen, looking at her with his head cocked to one side. Sharon frowned at him.

"And why will he let you comfort him, but doesn't even try to wake me up?" she demanded. "Which one of us is he married to, anyway?"

The dog didn't answer. Disgusted, though she wasn't sure why, Sharon turned out the light and went back to bed.


	13. Chapter Twelve

CHAPTER TWELVE

Al argued, reasoned, begged and blustered, but Sharon remained adamant. She was going to spend the Thanksgiving weekend with her father and brother in Phoenix, and her husband was coming with her whether he wanted to or not.

He most certainly didn't want to, but there came a point where victory came at too high a cost, and when Sharon refused to sleep with him because the matter hadn't been settled, he had capitulated to her demands. So it was that he loaded two suitcases and a garment bag into the trunk of the 'Vette on Friday afternoon, and walked Chester over to the Penja trailer.

Celestina had just arrived home, and was giving Stevie his bread and milk. The boy looked uncommonly wan and tired, but his mother had the same fresh buoyancy that she had displayed ever since getting the new job. The work at the dry-cleaner's obviously suited her, and Al imagined it probably paid better than the one at the bakery. The pantries and the ancient refrigerator always seemed well-stocked now, and he thought that Celestina was wearing a new dress—cheap, but new. Al was glad. There was nothing quite as magical as a new garment when you were used to wearing strangers' cast-offs.

Celestina greeted him with a smile. "Ah, Señor Calavicci!" she said. "You are going?"

"Uh, yeah, any minute now," Al said. "I really appreciate this."

"It is nothing. He is friend for Esteban. Esteban, you see Chester is here!"

"Chethter," Stevie mumbled, chewing lazily.

"School wearing you out, sport?" Al asked, patting the boy's shoulder.

"Sí, he is always tired now," Celestina said. "I think they work too hard, play too hard. Ah, but he sleeps so well. He is a good boy."

"Yeah, I know. He's a very good boy. Aren't you, Stevie?"

The child was occupied with his milk and didn't seem to hear. Al lifted Chester so that their faces were level, and nuzzled his snout briefly. "Now, you be a good boy, too," he instructed. "We'll be back in a couple of days."

"You have a good journey," Celestina said. "It is always good to see family. Carlos's brother comes to see us at Christmas, such a kind man. He brings letters."

"Yeah," Al said. "That'll be nice."

It had taken him a long time to figure out the story behind Stevie's absentee father. Celestina was a citizen, the daughter of poor migrant workers who had had the great good fortune of being born in California at the height of the peach season. Her lover, Carlos Emilias, had immigrated illegally. Not understanding the laws, Celestina had not applied for a marriage licence, but settled for a service at a travelling mission. They had lived happily enough for years, until they decided to move to the city in search of better work. Stevie had been only four when someone reported his father. Without the education or legal savvy required to combat the U.S. immigration officials, Carlos had been deported. Since then, Celestina had lived alone with their son, trying to earn enough money to prove that Carlos had well-established friends in America so that her husband in the eyes of God if not the law could make the crossing legally.

Celestina took the bag full of Chester's paraphernalia, and Al set the dog on the floor. He immediately began to explore his surroundings. "Anyway, thanks," Al said. He gave Celestina a quick, fraternal peck on the cheek and moved to squat next to Stevie. "Hey, sport, how 'bout a hug?" he said.

Stevie smiled at him through an enormous yawn and draped his short little arms around Al's neck, leaning heavily against him as the adult squeezed his chest. Al backed off and patted his arm fondly. "Happy Thanksgiving," he said.

" 'Ppy Thankthgivin'," Stevie mumbled, lifting his bread back to his mouth.

Al took his leave, wandering back up the street to his own home, where Sharon was emerging from the house. She was wearing her skin-tight blue jeans and a peasant blouse with an enormous pattern in several shades of pink. She was tying a chiffon scarf as a headband.

"Well, hello, gorgeous!" Al said, pausing to take in the full effect. Then he dashed up the lawn, seized her around the waist and swung her down onto the grass, kissing and snuffling and laughing.

"You're bad!" she exclaimed, batting the back of his head with one hand while groping his back with the other.

"And you're beautiful!" he told her.

"I still say we should take my van. There's more leg room."

Al backed off a little, still holding her around her supple waist. He shook his head. "No way," he said. "We're taking my car. I'm not parading around Santa Fe in that four-wheeled LSD flashback."

"Ooh, so I embarrass you!" she crowed, toying with his hair.

"Extravagantly," he affirmed, pulling her back against him and navigating them both towards the passenger door. He opened it and deposited her in her seat. "Besides, we can go faster in this baby."

"I doubt that," Sharon said. "German engineering…"

"And the 'Vette is an aerodynamic bundle of sheer horsepower," Al said, bracing himself against the side in an attempt to swing in as he used to. His arms trembled and his left shoulder ground painfully. With a gasp, he drew that arm to his chest.

"You okay?" Sharon asked.

"Fine, just fine," Al said, massaging the sore joint. He opened the door and slid in beside her, leaning over the gearshift to kiss the crest of her cheekbone. "Just dandy."

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

It was a sunny day, but seasonably cool—perfect for a drive in the desert. The miles to Phoenix zipped by in a rush of wind and speed. With his left arm resting nonchalantly on the side of the car, his right hand at twelve o'clock on the steering wheel, one foot on the gas, the other dormant beside the clutch, and Sharon stroking his side and his thigh in a very contented way, Al was happier than he had been for a long time. The wind seemed to blow away the weariness and the stress, and with every yard that took them further from Starbright his problems, too, seemed far more distant and unimportant. The fact that Eleese had yet to turn in her report, the countless hours of revising and summarizing that lay ahead, the day-to-day quibbles that weren't going to take a holiday just for the Committee, a rash of resignations that would necessitate a complete overhaul of access codes and passwords—all these flew away, no more real than the ghostly fingers moving through his hair.

At last they reached the city limits, and Sharon switched into navigator mode. They would be staying with her brother the accountant, his wife, and their two teenage kids. Her father lived in a nursing home, and had for years. He was suffering the early stages of Alzheimer's—not yet so far gone that he had forgotten his loved ones, but still oddly displaced. Out of time, as it were, and easily confused. Rich would be picking him up on Saturday, and he, too, would stay over through Monday.

The street was about what one would expect from a well-to-do accountant and stockbroker. The houses were new, in the neo-Tudor style that had sprung up like a rash in recent years, or else a more ethnic look, with arches and large windows and almost-flat roves. Some were urbane, with bright siding and colored shingles. Most had sculpted bushes and tiny, scrawny trees that might one day amount to something. One had a rock garden in place of a front lawn, cacti and desert flowers popping up amid the pea gravel.

Richard Quinn and his family had a sturdy-looking brown house with a large bay window. Al parked on the curb, and hurried around to open the passenger door for Sharon. Most women loved that, though of course you had to be careful with the feminists, who were about as likely to kick you in sensitive places as to thank you for your consideration. Sharon was big on freedom of thought and the expression of women's sexuality, but she still loved to be treated like the Homecoming queen she once had been. She smiled graciously as he moved around to retrieve their baggage from the trunk, and moved up the sidewalk to the door. She rang the bell and stood tapping her foot until the door opened and a girl pushed open the screen.

"Oh, hey, Aunt Sharon," she said boredly, twirling a tendril of hair around her index finger. Then she looked past the woman, and her face lit up like a neon sign—which given the shear quantity of makeup she wore was not an entirely inapt simile. "Hey, _gnarly _car!" she cried, bolting past Sharon and across the lawn to eye the car. "Oh, man, it's hot!"

Al chuckled. "Glad you like it. You must be Clara, right?"

"That's my name, spare me the nutcracker jokes," she said. "Who are you, and _what_ are you wearing?"

Al looked down at his zoot suit, and then at the girl's Spandex leggings, terry cloth miniskirt, and tummy-tickling blouse, none of which were the same color. "Same thing you're wearing," he said. "My own style. I'm Al."

"So how come you married Aunt Sharon?" Clara griped, turning back to stroke the side of the car. "People her age shouldn't get married. It's gross."

"Well, honey, you sure know how to make a man feel young," Al muttered, turning towards the house. Sharon held the door for him as he moved into the tiled foyer and deposited their luggage next to a rack of shoes.

"Do me a favor and don't flirt with my niece!" she hissed.

"Who's flirting?" Al asked. "I was just trying to be friendly."

"Yeah, well, don't flirt with her."

Al took hold of her chin and kissed her. "Baby, she's thirteen. She's way, way too young for me. I like my women… experienced."

Sharon frowned, and Al wondered how she could possibly have taken offence at anything he'd just said. He didn't have time to question her, though, because a woman came through from the living room.

"Sharon, hello!" she gushed, giving her sister-in-law a hug. "And you must be Albert!"

"Al," he corrected, shaking hands and looking her over. She was a prime example of suburban matronhood, from her perfectly coifed but hopelessly tacky hair to her carefully manicured nails that spoke of an immigrant cleaning lady. "You must be Debra."

She nodded. "Rich isn't home from work yet, but if you'll just come this way I'll show you the guest room." She moved to the top of the stairs and hollered up them, "Luke! Luke, get down here and take your Auntie Sharon's bags!"

"No, it's okay," Al said hastily. "I've got them."

"Oh, no, he's been moping in his room since the holiday started, and he can just get down here and do a little work. LUKE!"

"No, really," Al told her, picking up the bags. "That's why Sharon married me. To do the heavy lifting."

Sharon laughed, but Debra didn't seem to approve. Al reflected that perhaps Donna Eleese wasn't the coldest fish in the state, after all.

They followed their hostess down the hallway and past what looked like a den to a room that looked like something out of a home economics textbook. Flowers and frills and flounces everywhere. The furniture was all highly polished wood of a ruddy hue. The bed was so decked out in bolsters and decorative cushions that it looked like a guy would need a spelunking permit just to find the mattress.

The overdressed windows looked out on the back yard, which looked eerily like a monument to forgotten childhood. The lawn was as perfectly manicured as the front, and the flowerbeds exquisitely tended. There was an old wooden sandbox in the back corner, and a blue swingset by the house, neither of which, Al was willing to bet, had been used for years.

Debra told them to make themselves comfortable, and left them alone. Al laid the garment bag on the bed and began to carefully transfer clothes from it to the empty closet.

"I've seen more imaginative hotel rooms," he commented dryly.

"Oh, leave her alone!" Sharon snapped. "She's a terrific housekeeper."

Al frowned at his wife, surprised to hear her defending her pedantic sister-in-law. He decided to leave well enough alone, though, as he filled empty drawers with the contents of his suitcase and arranged his shoes neatly under his side of the bed.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

After about an hour of very awkward small talk, Richard came home from work. He was a stocky man, bearded, with an enormous, rumbling laugh and a caricature of a personality. He greeted Al, whom he had never seen before in his life, with a hearty smack on the back, and demanded that Sharon explain why no one had been invited to the wedding. His kissed his wife, tousled his daughter's mousy hair, and dug two beers from the fridge, asking if Al wanted to watch "the game" with him. Al accepted the invitation almost frantically, glad to be free of the duties of socializing with such a boring woman as Debra.

"The game" was college basketball. The kids' enthusiasm and raw energy and the occasional shots of the shapely co-eds on the cheerleading squads were ample compensation for the lack of professional pizzazz. By the time the two men emerged from the den supper was just being set on the table. Debra shouted up the stairs for Luke, who at last emerged.

He was a tall boy, rail thin and pallid. His hair was darker than his sister's, and he wore it long. He also wore, to Al's amazement, an assortment of clothing in white, gray and black. Several shirts layered on one another, and a tight pair of black jeans, all of which had been not-so-artfully attacked with a pair of scissors so that they hung off his lean frame at very strange angles, and showed bits of the layers beneath, to say nothing of his skin.

"Luke!" Sharon enthused, giving him an enormous hug that he didn't seem to enjoy. "How's my favorite nephew?"

"I'm your only nephew," he intoned flatly.

"And what's this new look?" Sharon asked. "I like it. Very chic."

"They're monochromatic rags," he announced, his voice still devoid of affect. "They're part of the new teenage subculture. They symbolize the bland and tattered conventions that hide the true you."

So saying, he loped over to the table and sat. The food began to make its way around the circle.

"Luke's an Existentialist," Rich announced proudly, as if nothing the boy could say or do could phase him.

"Really?" Sharon said. "What's that?"

"The world sucks," Luke said, as if that explained things.

"Pass the peas, lamebrain," Clara said.

"Darling!" Debra said. "Is that any way to talk? Try again."

Clara rolled her eyes. "Pass the peas, _please_, lamebrain," she said to her brother.

Debra laughed nervously. "That's better, sweetie," she said.

Al furled his lids over eyes that couldn't help rolling. The woman wasn't just as dull as a Vietnamese razor blade: she was spineless. No wonder the kid was a brat if she was allowed to run roughshod over her mother.

"So, Albert, are you an artist, too?" Debra asked delicately, her tone betraying that she was not overly fond of artists.

"Actually, no," Al said. "I'm a captain in the Navy."

Rich laughed. "Not much work for you around here, then!" he said.

"He's in charge of a top-secret government project," Sharon said, before Al could find her foot to step on it.

"R_eally_?" Debra cooed. "I didn't realize that there was still stuff like that going on."

"Oh, there isn't, not really," Al said. "It's just some propulsion experiments. Planes and cars and stuff." He cleared his throat a little, giving Sharon the Calavicci Evil Eye. Time to change the subject. "So, Luke," he said; "Existentialism. You read Sartre?"

Something almost akin to interest flickered across the lacklustre face. "Jean-Paul Sartre. The true voice of humanity. Champion of the oppressed and the underappreciated. A god among insects. Of course I've read him."

"I always found him interesting," Al continued conversationally. "Hell is other people."

"Yeah, exactly!" Luke exclaimed. "Exactly! He's right, you know."

"I know," Al said. "Just not _all _other people."

Luke frowned. "Huh?"

"Well, for example, do you think Hell is Aunt Sharon?" Al asked.

"Yeah," Luke said. "Don't you?"

It was not at all the answer Al had expected. He shifted a little, uncomfortably. "No," he said. "Of course not." He glared at her. _Except when she's shooting her mouth off._

"Uh… Clara, why don't you tell your Auntie about the theme you wrote last month?" Debra asked in her nasal, saccharine voice.

The meal continued excruciatingly. Luke fell into a sullen silence that Al couldn't rouse him out of, and Rich was the kind of man who obviously felt pretty strongly about food and conversation and their mutual incompatibility. That left the females, and tonight even Sharon wasn't very good company, determined as she was to play off of Debra's cues. This was a whole new side of his outspoken, lewd and entertaining wife, and one he didn't especially like.

At last the meal ended, and Luke got to his feet, announcing loudly that he had an appointment with is Atari. No one protested. Then Debra announced that she was bringing in the strawberry flan, and suddenly Al couldn't take it anymore. He got to his feet and fled the room. Sharon shouted after him, but by that time he had his hand on the front door. He ran down to the street and climbed into the Corvette. In the glove compartment there was a cigar and a silver Zippo. He lit up and reclined the seat, staring up at the neutral sky above. The smoke soothed him, and its sweet taste got rid of some of the sensation of staleness that had been growing on him since they'd arrived in this suburban nightmare. Everything that had been wrong with the 'fifties was apparently still wrong with the 'eighties, if you knew where to look.

"What the hell are you doing?" an angered voice demanded. Sharon.

"Enjoying a cigar and a little sanity," he answered.

"That was very rude! You've hurt Debbie's feelings."

"What a pity." Al exhaled enormously, enjoying the way his muscles strained to obey him. "I guess it's true that four bad apples don't ruin the _whole_ barrel."

"Am I suppose to feel flattered?" Sharon asked scathingly. "What's your problem with them?"

"Problem?" Al said. "Oh, no problem. Except that they're exactly what would happen if Victor Frankenstein tried to combine _The Twilight Zone_, _Leave It To Beaver_ and a cheap Brazilian sitcom! I mean, your niece is a monster, you're nephew's the youngest nihilist I've ever met, and _Debbie_, as you so affectionately call her, could give the Tin Woodsman dry rot! Rich is the best of the bunch, and even he's got a blind spot where his two misbegotten offspring are concerned!"

"I would've thought you'd like Luke," Sharon said, and Al realized with a wave of contrition that there was well-masked hurt behind the indignation.

"Well, maybe if I got to know him," he allowed. "But you'd have to work a miracle to turn Clara into someone I could have an intelligent conversation with, and Debra is a lost cause."

"Well, they're my family, and you're going to have to put up with them," Sharon said firmly.

"Says who?" Al demanded. "I could go in there, pack up my stuff, and high-tail it back home. You could take the bus on Tuesday."

"You wouldn't," she said in a low, deadly voice.

Al sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're right. Calavicci doesn't desert his post."

The passenger door opened, and she slid in beside him. "Well, all right, then."

She started to raise the top.

"Hey! What are you doing?" Al demanded.

"I want a little privacy," Sharon said, rolling up her window.

"Privacy?" he repeated, confused.

She reclined her seat and edged closer to him, her fingers popping the buttons of his shirt and caressing his chest. "Mm-hmm."


	14. Chapter Thirteen

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

There was a way the wind had of blowing through the jungle that chilled the blood. A low, querulous moan that rattled the leaves like so many bones. A voice, deep, plaintive and haunted, like the remnant of a lost soul forced to wander this living hell for all eternity. The wind echoed the misery of the captives, cowering wretchedly in the lockup hootch. It mocked Lieutenant Calavicci, segregated yet again for his belligerence and immured in the tiger cage. He crouched, neither sitting nor standing, his legs numb from the waist, his contorted back aching, his blistered hands throbbing, the warm softness of a baby-doll-clad bosom against his cheek...

Al opened his eyes to find himself in the strange Sears catalogue room, Sharon fast asleep next to him. There was no jungle. There was no Vietnam. It was all gone, over and done with, part of a past that he didn't have to remember. A past he could forget. A tiny nip of whiskey, he knew, would quell the dreams and let him sleep--but his whiskey was at home in Wickenburg.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. This was ridiculous. He could still hear the wind, still feel it. He hugged his pajama shirt to his body and shivered convulsively. There was a feel to it. The cut or the fabric sparked a memory of rough black garments, nondescript, filthy--when he was even allowed to wear them. Carefully, lest he should wake Sharon, Al got to his feet and began, catfooted, to pace the room. The shag carpet beneath his bare feet woke some semblance of reality in his mind.

But he could still hear the wind. It gnawed at his reason, compromising his attempts to recover his sense of time and place. He needed help, but realized that there was no help to be had. He couldn't wake Sharon: after their impassioned quickie in the 'Vette she had made it quite clear that such antics were strictly taboo in the house. Chester, always an antidote for the horrors, was asleep in the Penjas' trailer back home. Al was alone, as alone as he had been in that cage on the other side of the world.

Rich had to have something stronger than beer in the house, he thought abruptly. The mournful lowing of the wind would drive him out of his mind if he couldn't stop it soon. Shaking a little, he slipped out of the guest room.

The house was dark, but Al had night vision that most men would envy: the product of long years lived without electricity. He moved carefully, avoiding the dim shadows of the furnishings. The first step onto the tiles of the kitchen floor almost startled a gasp of terror from his throat. His unstable psyche equated this sensation of cold ceramic on bare feet to that first winter of imprisonment; his last month at the Hanoi Hilton. Day after day, numb toes and tingling heels on the icy floor. Tropical country, sure.

Al opened the fridge, and its light blinded him momentarily. Then his vision equilibrated and he started to open cupboards, peering behind Corelware and crystal, boxes of cereal, jars of spices, a stovetop popcorn maker. He opened the last door to find shelves of table linen. He slumped, defeated. The shaking grew worse. The conflicting stimuli--the cold floor, the pajamas, the smooth grain of the cupboard door and the sound of the wind, yowling like horns in the distance--were overpowering. It was as if he was in three places at once, and not one of them was where he wanted to be.

Unable to bear the moaning wind any longer, Al fell to his knees, clamping his hands over his ears and screwing his eyes tightly closed. When was this going to end? He'd been repatriated in 'seventy-three, for God's sake. When would he be allowed to come home?

_Home_. Though a fraction of a second ago, the word had meant the United States, the free world, that relatively painless definition quickly fled. _Home_. Lost in the intrusion, Al couldn't stop the image from surging up to assail him. A beautiful little bungalow. Blue. A handsome veranda. A majestic elm on the corner of the lot. Calla lilies in the flowerbeds. And in the window, a face. The most beautiful face on Earth...

The wind began to crescendo in time to his agony, and Al crumpled, burying his face in his lap.

"Stop," he begged, not realizing that he was speaking aloud. "Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop."

Like the mantra of name, rank, serial number and birthdate that had served as a touchstone through his tenure in Hell, this simple repetition gave him focus and intent. With each utterance of the small word his mind pulled further within itself, able, somehow, to hide from the pain. From the wind. "Stop," Al repeated. "Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. St--"

"Okay, okay. It stopped."

Al gasped sitting up defensively. Leaning against the door of the still-open refrigerator was Luke, still fully dressed, his tattered garments creating a very strange silhouette. Al stared, too numb with confusion and embarrassment to do anything more.

"Music hater, huh?" the boy said scornfully.

Al's brows furrowed. "Music?"

Luke thumped his breastbone with two fingers. "Ouch, man. You got me right here with that one. Music, Mister Square. You ever heard of jazz?"

"Kid, jazz and me grew up together," Al said. "I was younger than your sister when I saw Louis Armstrong play live in Chi."

The transformation was amazing, even in the dim light. All pretense of disinterest dissolved into an expression of wonder and disbelief.

"You _saw_ Louis Armstrong? _Live_?" Luke cried, clapping his hand over his mouth when he realized how loudly he had spoken.

"Sure. Not the kind of thing you forget," Al said, recovering something of his customary self-assurance... or at least a reasonable outward facsimile of it. "I'll tell you about it some day."

"How 'bout now?" Luke whispered, pointing over his shoulder. "I was just hangin' downstairs, if you wanna join me."

What the hell? It wasn't like he was going to get any sleeping done, anyway. "Sure, kid. What the hell?" Al grunted, getting to his feet and trying to forget that the boy had found him groveling in the midst of a panic attack.

He followed Luke to the back stairs, and so down into the basement rec room. There was a television in one corner, surrounded by a sofa and several beanbag chairs. Another corner sported a rack of sequined dance costumes, no surprises there, and a blue gymnastics mat. Luke scorned these and turned the corner from whence the dim incandescent light was filtering.

In a corner under the stairs was an old recliner and the remains of an ottoman. Set on the latter was a glistening saxophone. The walls were plastered with posters, including one of Charlie Chaplain sitting on a grubby-looking stoop. Al eyed that one, impressed at this new insight into the kid's personality.

"Sit down," Luke said, indicating the battered armchair. "Nobody can hear us upstairs."

Al sat gingerly, half afraid that the structure would give out under his weight. Luke picked up the instrument and settled on the ottoman.

"Don't you ever sleep?" Al asked.

"Napped this afternoon," Luke told him, shrugging. "So who cares?"

"Not me," Al said. "What time is it, anyway?"

Luke shrugged still more enormously. "Time is the worn convention of the pedantic architects of our Age of Banality."

"I see," Al intoned mildly, not sure where else to take the conversation. Silence ensued briefly, before Luke spoke again.

"So spill it," he said. "Tell me all about how you got to see Louis Armstrong."

Al couldn't help but grin at the boy's eagerness, but the fact was that part of him was still in Vietnam, and he was having trouble adjusting to the change of environment. He felt like running, or hiding, or...

He shivered. Luke frowned.

"Hey, you cold?" he asked. He got to his feet, setting down the saxophone, and slipped behind the chair, creeping into the ever-shrinking crawlspace beneath the stairs. " 'Cause I got something that'll warm you up."

There was considerable rummaging and a strange squeak, and then Luke came crawling back, somewhat dustier for his efforts. "You like tequila?" he asked, holding up a bottle.

Al's eyes widened. "Yeah, I--" Then he stopped and frowned. "How did you get that?" he asked, something of the responsible adult he knew he ought to be but actually wasn't filtering through his words.

Luke shrugged. "Got a buddy who pulls for me," he said. "Laws are the worn convention--"

"--of the pedantic architects of our Age of Banality," Al finished. "Yeah, I know. Let's try some of that."

Luke smiled, a broad, genuine smile. "No glasses. You care?"

As a matter of fact, Al did care. He felt very strongly about the luxury of dishes, especially the clean, smooth, well-crafted sort. On the other hand, he knew that the drink would help him finish his transition from the anguished past to the merely annoying present, and that was a state greatly to be desired.

"Naw. I don't backwash," he said.

"Neither do I," Luke promised, uncapping the bottle and offering Al the first quaff. He took it gratefully and felt the alcohol sublime its way down his esophagus. The calming effect was almost instantaneous, an anticipation of the relief that he knew would ensue rather than a reaction any chemical process. That would come later, and then he really would be able to sleep.

Al handed the bottle to Luke, who took a more moderate swallow. "So we've got the refreshments. Where's the entertainment?" he demanded. "Sachmo in Chi!"

"Oh, yeah," Al said, helping himself to another mouthful of tequila. "Well, I was eleven, and I was on the lam with the greatest pool player in the world. You ever heard of Charlie 'Black Magic' Walters?"

Luke shook his head. Al sighed.

"Yeah, I shoulda figured. Well, anyway, Magic and me, we were in Chi, and he was shooting pool in this club, when all of a sudden in walks Louis Armstrong!" Al relished the wonder on the youth's face. "I didn't know who he was, of course, but everybody there sure did. This was 1945, too, when he was already a celebrity, but he was in town playing some big concert hall, and after the show he figured he'd stop by his old haunts and say hello to some of the guys he used to know back in the 'Twenties before he hit it big. So there he was!"

"Hey, hang on, you were eleven?" Luke said, frowning. "So how come you were at this club in the middle of the night? You should've been in bed or something."

Al grinned. "Hey, who just said that bit about time and afternoon naps?" he challenged. "I was there, okay? And Louis gets up with the band and he starts jamming, right there on the dinky little stage in this club. They musta played two, three hours, and Magic let me sit on the pool table to watch. When they were all done and Louis came down to the bar for a drink, Magic took me over with him, and he said, 'That was some mighty fine playing, Mister Armstrong. Mighty fine.' "

Al paused to avail himself once more of the liquor, which was now taking the edge off of his distress. Vietnam was fading fast, back into Hell where it should be, and it was being replaced with the memory of some of the happiest days of his less-than-idyllic childhood. Thank God for Luke and his contrary habits!

The boy was staring at Al, wide-eyed with amazement. "What happened then?" he asked breathlessly.

Al's smile broadened, now entirely sincere and untainted by any recollection of the camps. "Louis said, 'Why, it's Black Magic! Sir, it is an honor to meet you, an honor! Saw you play once down in New Orleans. Best game I ever watched!' Then he bought Magic a drink, and they sat down together at the bar."

"What about you?" Luke asked.

It was the most treasured moment of an immensely precious memory. "He asked me my name, and I told him. Then he said he was pleased to meet me, and shook my hand. Then he bought me a soda."

He fell silent, lost in a reverie of nostalgia. Luke stared at him, and finally managed a reverent whisper.

"Louis Armstrong bought you a soda," he breathed. "Louis Armstrong bought my Uncle Al a soda."

The almost worshipful tone the boy was taking made Al uncomfortable. "Yeah, well, I couldn't finish it," he said wryly. Ready to change the subject, he pointed at the saxophone. "You play?"

"Soloist in the school jazz band," Luke said proudly.

"Isn't school a worn convention?" Al asked snarkily.

Luke shrugged. "Gets me away from Mom," he said.

"So play for me," Al said.

Luke seemed to flush a little. "Okay," he said. "Whaddaya want to hear?"

"Play me some jazz," suggested Al.

"Well..." Luke licked his reed and flexed his fingers. "This is something I've been kind of tooling around with. Just a little... something."

He put the instrument to his lips and began to play. The sound was low and full, beautifully crafted by strong lungs and an exquisitely controlled diaphragm. The instrument wept softly, mourning the woes of the world as it swung with the beat of sweet, slow jazz. It had an almost verbal quality to it, eloquent and yet ineffable. Like the weeping of a broken heart.

Like the wind in the jungles of Vietnam.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The next morning, after snatching a couple hours' sleep, Al climbed into the passenger seat of the Quinn family station wagon, accompanying Rich on the mission to pick up Sharon's father from the nursing home.

"What you have to understand about Dad is he's not all there," Rich explained as they drove. "You know, senile dementia and stuff. He knows Deb and Sharon and me, and most of the time the kids, but he's not always sure of stuff like what year it is, or who's president. Almost like he thinks the whole family's living together in the 'forties or something. It's weird, but I guess you have to put up with stuff like that from old people, right?"

"I guess," Al said noncommittally. He didn't know the first thing about it. The oldest person he knew was Doctor Thorgard at the Project, who was certainly not out of touch with reality—at least no more than most scientists.

"Oh, and he usually thinks Mom's still alive, so just play along, okay?" Rich added as they pulled into the scenic parking lot of the handsome seniors' lodge.

"Absolutely," Al promised.

They entered a moodily lit foyer where a woman in flowered scrubs sat behind a large, circular desk. Rich approached.

"I'm here to pick up Patrick Quinn for the weekend," he said.

The woman made a stock reply and started Rich on the proper paperwork. As he picked up the pen, Rich turned to Al, who had paused to admire the curves of a young lady reading to a very, very old one in a corner of the adjoining common room. "You can head down and see him if you want," Rich said. "Room 134, just at the end of that hall."

"Oh. Sure." Al followed his brother-in-law's finger, and set out in the appropriate direction. It wasn't very difficult to find the right room: they all had nameplates. Al knocked lightly.

" 'Oosere?" a muffled voice demanded.

"It's Al Calavicci, Mr. Quinn. I'm Sharon's husband," Al called through the door.

"Husband, bah! My girl's too young to catch herself a husband. Go home and play with your marbles!"

This could be more difficult than originally suggested, Al reflected. He tried a different tack. "Can I please come in, sir? It's hard to visit like this."

"Visit? Visit?" the voice parroted. "You here to visit? My Sharon visits. Every Sunday. That's tomorrow, you know. My Sharon's going to visit me tomorrow."

"I'm here to visit today," Al said. "Can I come in?"

"What are you standing out there for? Come in so I can see you!"

Confused and a little annoyed, Al opened the door. The room was small. There was a narrow twin bed with an aluminum frame tucked against one wall. A side table, a dresser, a chair and, inexplicably, a gorgeous mahogany coat rack rounded out the furnishings. Through a door to the right of the entrance was a bathroom with a shallow tub and handicap-equipped fixtures.

In a wheelchair in the center of the room sat a wizened old man, thin and wrinkled with a full head of wispy white hair. His shoulders were stooped and his head thrust forward. A keen light flashed in the gray eyes—eyes Al recognized at once as being the deep, rich green of Virginia creeper. Sharon's eyes.

"Hello, Mr. Quinn," he said politely.

"Close the door before we catch our death!" the old man ordered. "And don't you 'Mister Quinn' me! Introduce yourself properly!"

"I'm Al Calavicci. I'm Sharon's husband," Al said, holding out his hand to shake. "I'm pleased to meet you."

"Don't you talk to me about Sharon's husband! She's too young. Shouldn't be married at her age. No good rich boy. Son of a Kraut and an Englishman. No good." He shook his venerable head, clicking his tongue against his dentures. "She should have married herself a soldier, not some spoiled Texan brat. Al, you say?"

"That's right, sir." Al dragged the chair forward so that he could sit near his father-in-law, who smelled strongly of Aqua Velva.

"Knew an Al once. Albert, but no one called him that. Pilot. Most fearless man I ever knew. They shot him down, they did. Never heard from him again." Mr. Quinn shook his head. "Never. Terrible thing, war. Al."

"Isn't that funny, sir. I'm a pilot, too. Captain Calavicci, United States Navy." Al smiled, hoping to take the man's mind off of his lost friend.

"Never had much use for the Navy," the old man said. "Not much need for 'em in mainland France. Off fighting the Japs, the Navy."

"You fought in the war, sir?" Al said.

"War. I tell you, come home and you don't recognize your own little girl. Grown up into a little lady, my Sharon has. Don't you go off to war, son."

Al's eyelids fluttered, blinking rapidly while he tried to glaze over the irony. "A bit late for that… Dad. Can I call you Dad?"

"Dad? Why would you call me that?" he demanded.

"I'm married to Sharon. I'm her new husband."

The keen eyes that belied the confusion evident in the man's speech were turned upon Al. "New husband?" he said. "You're not Heinrich."

"No, she divorced Heinrich," Al said, not bothering to point out that she had done so more than twenty years ago. "Now she's married to me."

"You," Mr. Quinn said slowly. "What do you do?"

"I'm a captain in the Navy," Al said.

"Navy? What's your ship?"

"I actually… uh… she's the S. S. Starbright," Al said, seeing no need to be over-literal. He was, after all, at the helm of the Project.

"Sounds like a fine ship."

"She is," Al said. "One of the finest."

A silence elapsed.

"So… can I call you Dad?" Al repeated.

"No! You're not my son!" Mr. Quinn began to grow agitated. "My son… my son… his name is Richard. Little Rich. Let me tell you, Sharon wasn't happy about the baby. She'd just got her daddy back from the war, and along comes a little bundle stealing away his attention. My little girl… when is she coming to visit?"

"Actually, Dad, you're going to visit her," Richard said, coming into the room without bothering to knock. "Thanksgiving weekend, remember?"

"Thanksgiving… Thanksgiving… I love Thanksgiving," the old man mused. "Mary will bake one of her pies. Mary makes the best apple pie, Al. You have to try Mary's pie."

"Actually, Dad, Debra's taking over the piemaking this year," Rich said. "Now, is your bag all packed? Where's your coat?"

"On the coat rack where it belongs!" Mr. Quinn snapped. "And my bag's been packed for days! About time you showed up: one day you'll come by and I'll be dead of waiting! And get my hat! I want the blue one today."

"Aw, Dad, you know Debbie hates those stupid hats," Rich complained.

"I don't care what your thin rake of a wife likes!" the old man exclaimed. "I like my hats, and Sharon likes my hats, and Mary likes my hats. Mary says you can always tell a gentleman by his hats. You should listen to your mother, Richard. She's a wise woman. Al, you be a good lad and bring me the blue hat," he wheedled.

"Absolutely," Al vowed. "Where is it?"

"In the closet on a peg, right next to the red one! Oh, but you wouldn't know that," he added generously. "Just in the closet, that's a good boy."

Al opened the closet and plucked a blue fedora off the wall. There were several others, all in bright colors: red and yellow and green and purple. He grinned. Fantastic hats!

He dusted the brim with a flourish and held it out for Mr. Quinn to take. He grinned and gripped it with withered fingers, then set it carefully on his head, cocking it just so.

"Always tell a gentleman by his hat," he repeated with satisfaction. "Now, you can push the chair for me, and Rich can open the doors. Pat."

"Pat?" Al repeated.

"Pat. You can call me Pat," Mr. Quinn said. "I like you."

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMMWM_

Al spent most of the afternoon sitting at the dining room table and talking to Pat. As it turned out he was a very personable man, once you accustomed yourself to his rambling mind. He loved to talk about books—an interest the other members of his family did not share. Al had read many of the classics that the old man loved, and being timeless these works could be discussed without either of the speakers worrying about the other's perception of the world. Sharon would drift in and out of the conversation, fussing over her father like a mother hen and occasionally pecking Al on the cheek as befitted a modest newlywed. The others, however, had nothing to say to their sire, father-in-law and grandpa. Clara announced, loudly enough that even the old gentleman had to have heard her, that "old fogies" were "gross". Luke came downstairs long enough to pay his respects, then vanished again. Rich spent most of the day working in the yard. Debra never spoke to her father-in-law except to upbraid him for dribbling, or for spilling some of his water, or for any one of a dozen other imagined misdemeanors.

After supper Rich announced that it was time to go swimming. Sharon had warned Al that this, too, was a family tradition. He had been determined to beg off, even though he let her pack his trunks, but as soon as the excursion was announced Pat's face lit up enormously.

"Al can come, too," he said graciously. "They teach 'em how to swim properly in the Navy!" He batted Luke's arm. "He can show you a trick or two, boy!"

After that, of course, Al couldn't refuse. The two vehicles were loaded and the entire family removed to the local sports complex.

Getting Pat into the water was an adventure, but once there his dexterity and control was amazing. His legs, too weak to carry him on land, were still strong enough to manage a flutter kick, and his arms were far more powerful than one would have thought looking at them. He started contentedly to swim laps with Rich, while Sharon and Clara played in the shallows, splashing one another and laughing as other bathers were caught in the crossfire. Debra sat fastidiously on one of the plastic lawn chairs on the deck, watching the fracas with disinterest. Al gathered that it wasn't her favorite part of the Thanksgiving rituals.

Luke was near the deep end, clinging to the wall and eyeing the darker water nervously. Al floated in his direction.

"Don't like swimming?" he asked, coming up alongside his nephew.

Luke shook his head. "I don't know what people expect," he said. "I was born in the desert, for crying out loud. But I'm not scared!" he added viscously.

"Of course not," Al agreed. "Little bit of water never scared anyone. Except the Wicked Witch of the West!"

Luke laughed, then frowned. "_The Wizard of Oz _is for kids," he said. "Silver slippers and talking lions."

"Hah! You've read it!" Al said. "In the movie it's ruby slippers."

"That always bugged me," Luke confessed, then flushed.

Al grinned. "Me too. But that Judy Garland. I was so in love with her the first time I saw that movie…"

"Really? I was in love with Glinda. Of course," Luke said hastily; "I was six."

"I was fourteen. You have a point, though. Those sparkles…" Al laughed and smacked the boy's upper arm affectionately. "So what about now? Any girls?"

"Naw," Luke said. "Not many girls interested in… you know. A guy like me. Besides, Mom'd probably kill me if I brought home a girlfriend."

"Yeah, she looks like a killer, all right," Al agreed. "So you don't like swimming… what do you like?"

"I dunno. I hate sports."

Suddenly they were deluged by a wall of water as Sharon and Clara came up, splashing furiously. Luke cried out in alarm and buried his head in one arm. Al laughed and hopped onto the side of the pool, kicking energetically.

"We give up! We surrender!" Sharon cried, giggling wildly. Al let his legs float back to rest against the side of the pool. Luke coughed and pulled himself out of the water.

"Fraidy-cat," Clara taunted. "Luke the lamebrain's scared of water!"

Luke colored deeply. "Am not," he muttered, getting to his feet and stalking away towards a pile of lifejackets. Sharon sighed and clamored out of the water to follow him.

Al turned an imperious gaze on the girl. "Clara, come here," he said firmly. "Come up here. I want to talk to you."

To his amazement, she obeyed, dragging herself onto the edge and letting her toes skim the surface of the water. "So knock me out," she intoned boredly.

"Clara, isn't there anything you don't like to do?" Al began.

"Yeah: talking to creepy old guys who married my aunt," she said.

Al fought the urge to lash out. "You're a real charmer, you know that?" he said.

"And you're cutting into my swimming time," she said.

"Yeah, well, I just want you to know that your brother doesn't like swimming, but that doesn't mean he's scared of it. I'll bet he's better than your grandpa!"

"Grandpa's old, and he's crazy," Clara said. "He thinks Grandma's still alive and everything."

"You miss your grandma a lot, don't you?" Al asked, trying yet again to make some kind of personal contact with this belligerent and unattractive child.

"No." Despite the firm denial in his voice, the girl cast her eyes down, focusing intently on the water. Al reached out and touched her arm. She looked up with a little gasp, and a tiny smile visited her lips, morphing suddenly into a look of absolute revulsion.

"_Ew_!" she exclaimed. "Ew, what's wrong with your chest? Ew, ew, _ewww_!

Al looked down, following her eyes to the pale white scars standing out against his wet skin. A self conscious hand spread across his ribs, feeling the all-too-familiar ridges.

"Yuck!" Clara cried. "Yuck, there's more on your back. Ew!" She got to her feet. "Ew. Just, like, stay away from me and stuff, okay?"

So saying, she trotted away, down the length of the pool, to where her mother was sitting. Al slipped into the water again, hugging his chest and hiding the marks beneath the surface. What a fabulous weekend. What an absolutely peachy way to spend the holiday.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"And one, two, three, _lift_!"

On his own count, Rich straightened his legs, and Sharon got to her feet in the water, her shoulder supporting her father's thighs. Rich had his elbows locked in the old man's ampits, and he lifted. As Sharon's hands caught Pat's feet, Al slipped one arm behind his knees, using the other to brace his back. Together the two men carried him to the transport chair that Luke held in place. Sharon clamored out of the pool and went to fetch the towel they had brought out on deck. She started to dry Pat off, beginning with his legs.

"Where's Mary?" the old man demanded. "Did she see that crawl? Did you see it, Mary? Beautiful! I've still got it, old girl! I've still got it!"

Sharon felt a lump bobbing in her throat, and it angered her. There had been no love lost between her and her mother, two women both too headstrong for their own good. Yet the Mary Quinn her father remembered was a different woman entirely. The phantom wife was tender, patient and supportive: what the real one should have been. Or perhaps what she could have been, if only one had looked at her in a different way. It was so strange that someone who had driven everyone crazy every day of her life was missed so terribly now that she was gone.

"Mom's not here, Daddy," she said, drying his torso and arms. "She couldn't come, remember?"

"Couldn't come… no, she isn't well," Pat mumbled. "Caught the chicken pox from your brother, my girl. Don't you fret. She'll be all better in no time. You and me, we can keep house together—will you leave me alone, you little hussy?" he cried suddenly as she tried to dry his hair. "I'm your father, not your damned baby!"

He snatched the towel from her hands and threw it into the pool.

"Dad!" Sharon cried, swooping to recover it. Her haste was in vain, of course, for the damage was done. With an exasperated sigh she tossed it at Al, who caught it with a soggy splat. "Just look what you did!"

"Tsk, tsk. No dessert for the naughty boy," Pat mocked. Then his sneer morphed into a nasty glare. "Stop mollycoddling me, girl! Richard, get me away from your fool of a sister! I want my shower."

Rich sighed, looking apologetically at Sharon. She scowled at him. She didn't need his pity just because Dad had flown into a temper. If Richard ever bothered to spend time with the old man he'd realize that such outbursts were absolutely normal. There was no point in taking them personally. She watched Rich wheel the chair towards the men's change-room, Luke following obediently if not willingly. Then she turned with a sigh towards her husband.

"Poor Dad," she sighed. "He misses her so much. Don't understand why, really. I—Al?"

He had wrapped the sodden towel around his shoulders and was holding it close to his body like a cloak, covering his shoulders, his back and his chest. His lips were blue and he was shivering, staring blankly at the rivulets of water running towards the drain on the deck. Sharon drew closer.

"Al, baby?" she said softly, extending her hand to touch his shoulder. He shrank away.

"Don't," he said flatly. "Just don't. I'd better go help with your father."

So saying, he moved off, still shaking a little as he went and resolutely clutching the towel to his body. Sharon shook her head and went to join Clara in the ladies' change-room.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

The girls were ready to leave first, of course, since the men had to deal with Pat's particular needs. Debra seemed uncommonly possessive of her daughter, holding her shoulder and petting her hair.

"So, my dear," she said, turning to Sharon; "where on _earth_ did you find this one?"

"Whatever do you mean?" Sharon asked sweetly. It was a well known fact that they hated each other, loathing from behind great bastions of civility and mutual flattery. They waged war in honeyed small talk and did battle with swords hidden in sheaths of politeness.

"Well, I've seen some worn-down dogs in my time, but this one… well, I thought you liked your pets less…patched together."

"I'm afraid I'm not following you, Debbie, dear. Pets?"

Before Debra could rejoin, the men came around the corner from the change-rooms. Al was pushing Pat's chair, and Luke was laden with the duffel full of wet towels and used suits. Together the family made their way to the parking lot, where Rich and Al got Pat into the front seat of the station wagon with very little trouble at all.

"I want to ride in your car," Clara announced, addressing Sharon.

"Well, dear, I'm sure I don't mind," Sharon said. However much she loathed the girl's mother, she positively adored her niece. She adored her nephew, too. They were perfect children, not at all like their father, who had been flawed in so many ways that even decades later Sharon couldn't tally them. "You wouldn't mind if I went with Rich, would you, Al?"

He looked up from fastening Pat's seat belt, and from the look on his face Sharon could tell he hadn't really been listening to the dialogue around him.

"Would you mind if Clara rode with you?" Sharon clarified.

A cloud crossed Al's face, clearly communicating that he did, in fact, mind very much, but before he could school his features or refuse, Clara piped up. "Not _him_, Aunt Sharon!" she cried. "He's creepy and I don't like him. I want _you_ to drive me."

Sharon tried to deal diplomatically with the girl's _faux pas_. "Oh, no, honey, Uncle Al's the only one who drives the Corv—"

"Here. Go ahead." His voice flat and deadened, Al extended the keys with thumb and forefinger. "I'll ride with Rich."

As she took the keys Sharon noticed Al glancing at Clara, something like shame and regret in his eyes. She had no time to scrutinize the expression, however, because Al swung into the seat behind Pat and closed the door with a bang.

"I guess I can drive you after all," Sharon said to Clara. "How 'bout that!"

"Bodacious!" Clara exclaimed, her adorable face lighting up with her smile. She ran around to the other side of the Corvette, bouncing eagerly on the balls of her feet. "Can we ride with the top down, Auntie Sharon? Can we? Can we?"

Sharon's concerns about Al vanished in the delight of catering to the girl's whims. "Absolutely!" she said. "Only way to ride in a Corvette!"

They made quick work of the top, and got in together. By this time Rich was gone, and Sharon revved the engine in a very satisfying way, not having to worry what Al would think of or say about the sound.

They took off at a leisurely pace, Sharon determined to prolong the treat as much as she could. They rode quietly for a minute or two before Clara spoke.

"Why'd you marry him? He's a creep," she said.

"Oh, he's not a creep. He's actually all right, for a guy," Sharon said.

"He's a creep. He's mean and creepy and gross. I hate him."

Sharon frowned, a suspicion percolating in her heart. Al had expressed his dislike of her little angel the previous night. Had he said something rude or hurtful? "Clara, what did Uncle Al want to talk about?"

"I dunno. He was trying to boss me and stuff," Clara said. "He's a jerk. And he's nasty."

"What do you mean, nasty?"

"All wrinkly and gross, like moldy cheese or something." Clara shuddered convulsively. "Why'd you marry a moldy, gross, nasty, mean jerk, Aunt Sharon? You're young. You're pretty. You could've got a normal husband. You coulda married Andre. I liked Andre. He said he was going to paint my portrait."

Sharon smiled fondly at the child, marveling at her innocence. Over the years Sharon had brought a wide assortment of beaux home for holiday celebrations. The Andre to whom Clara was referring had been the guest over Christmas of '77. Their relationship had lasted a whopping six weeks, until Sharon had discovered what he painted his child models wearing—or rather, _not_ wearing. He was a creep if there ever was one, despite his charming ways that had clearly won over Sharon's niece. She just thanked her lucky stars that he hadn't got around to those portrait sessions!

"Andre wasn't the right guy," Sharon equivocated.

"Ew! And this one is? I mean, sure, he's got a hot car, but you've got to look under the surface, Aunt Sharon. You can't just judge him by the superficial stuff, you know."

"Aw, hon," Sharon said; "I know that. And don't worry. He won't get away with trying to boss you around."

"Promise?" Clara asked.

"Promise," Sharon said.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

Though the task of physically getting Pat into bed was dispensed with by Rich, the actual business of settling him in for the night was Sharon's duty—one that had evolved into a ritual in the six years since Mary's death had necessitated her husband's move to the care home. First she drew the curtains. Then she switched on the nightlight and turned off the overheads. Then Pat pushed himself up onto his arms so that she could plump the pillows just so. Finally, he lay back and she tucked the covers around him, bending to kiss his cheek. They would pray together, something Sharon never bothered with except when she was with her father, and then they would say goodnight.

This time, when the prayers were said and Sharon moved to get up, Pat gripped her hand and held her back. His eyes that always gave such a pretext of lucidity fixed themselves intently on her face.

"Sharon, my girl," he said. "Sharon, dear."

Choking up a little at the tender affection in his voice, Sharon managed a smile. "Yes, Daddy?"

"You did much better this time."

Sharon frowned, not sure what he meant. "I'm glad…" she said warily.

"Your husband," Pat clarified. "You did much better with your husband."

She grinned. He had hated Heinrich almost as much as Mom had hated the very fact that her daughter had got married so young. "I'm glad you like him," she said.

"He's a gentleman," Pat murmured drowsily. "A gentleman, but…" Bewilderment creased his brow. "But you can always tell a gentleman by his hat?"

"Yes, you can," Sharon agreed, kissing him. "Goodnight, Daddy."

"Goodnight, my girl," he sighed, his eyes already drifting closed.

Sharon got to her feet and left the room, crossing the hall to the other guest bedroom. She was torn between grief and joy, a muddled mixture of emotions warring deep in her chest. She wanted to laugh, to cry, to run screaming in circles… and most of all she wanted a strong, confident pair of arms around her.

Al was sitting on the edge of the bed, his feet apart and his arms resting on his thighs so that his hands dangled between the spread knees. His back was curled and his head hung low as he stared numbly at the backs of his hands.

"Hey, sailor," Sharon intoned seductively, closing the door. Al gave no sign that he could hear her. She climbed onto the bed and crawled up behind him, her hands each finding a tensed shoulder. He was trembling beneath her fingers: a strange, bone-deep shivering that was at once overpowering and almost unnoticeable. "Hey, Al," Sharon whispered, her tongue flicking his earlobe; "how 'bout you and I make a little whoopee?"

He still didn't respond. Her hands worked around his arms and found the buttons on the front of his shirt. She undid the top one, then the next, then the next. One hand slipped inside, running over the slight ripple of his ribs and the faint traces of the scars he never talked about.

Al shuddered convulsively and his fist closed on her wrist, thrusting her hand away. "Don't," he said flatly, pushing her off. He got to his feet and took two halting steps away from her. His arms were crossed tightly over his abdomen, and he was bent over on himself as if he was contorted with pain or shame.

Sharon brought her legs around from under her body, setting her feet on the carpet. "Aw, Al, I know this isn't the Thanksgiving that you had in mind—" she began.

"Damned right it isn't!" he snapped. "Three and a half days off and how do I have to spend it? Playing nice with a woman with all the charm of an extra-large dental drill bit and keeping your monster of a niece off her brother's back!"

Mention of Clara sparked Sharon's temper. "She said you were trying to boss her around. She's not your kid, Al!"

"Lucky for her! If any child of mine behaved the way she does I'd spank her into next week!" he snarled, uncoiling a little out of his stance of mortification and into the fight. "She has absolutely no respect for anyone! The way she talks to your father—"

"He scares her, being so sick!" Sharon cried. "If _you'd_ lost your grandma when _you_ were seven years old—"

A horrible, harsh and barking laugh tore the air. "Grandma? By the time I was seven I was living in an orphanage because my mother ran off with a damned encyclopedia salesman! My father died when I was ten! And you know what? Never in my life did I walk up to a sick old man and announce that old people are 'gross'!" Al snapped. "She's a monster, and I don't see why none of you can see that! The only person in this house who hasn't got blinders where _sweet little Clara_ is concerned is her brother!"

"Will you keep your voice down?" Sharon cried. "I don't care what you think of them: they're my family and they're more important to me than any man, especially a stiff-necked Naval officer completely oblivious to his own faults!"

"Oh, well, if Debbie and that little mouse-haired fiend are more important, why did you marry me?" Al snapped.

"I don't know!" Sharon cried. "I wish I hadn't! You're more trouble than you could ever be worth! You're disgusting, Calavicci! You make me sick!"

"Well, then you needn't be bothered with my company! I'll sleep on the sofa in the basement!" Al growled, yanking the coverlet off the bed and wrapping it defiantly around his shoulders. "And you and Debbie can just click your tongues about that all you want to!"

Then the door slammed and he was gone. Sharon stood there, her chest heaving with the aftermath of her rage. She hadn't meant half of what she had said. And after all, Al had a point. Clara _was_ awfully hard on Luke. She _did_ make life difficult for him. Luke was a sweet, quiet and fundamentally insecure boy, and there was no denying that he took his sister's teasing far more to heart than he should have. But she wasn't really a monster: she was just going through a difficult phase. She was really a very sweet little girl.

Yet the fact that she had said some hurtful things, and the fact that Al wasn't completely wrong held no weight when compared to Sharon's pride. She wasn't ready to eat her words. She wasn't ready to apologize. After all, the fault was not hers alone.

Resolutely, she climbed into bed and turned out the light.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Al was not at all sorry when Thanksgiving was over and he could leave Sharon's family and the disastrous weekend behind. If it hadn't been for Luke's nocturnal company, sharing a mutual fondness for jazz and tequila, Al didn't think he would have lived through Sunday and Monday. Clara had stalwartly refused to acknowledge his existence in any way after Saturday's fiasco, which actually suited him just fine. He had caught Debra shooting him the occasional ugly look when she thought no one could see, and Al suspected that her daughter had alerted her to the "gross" white marks webbing his body—marks the girl didn't understand, but her mother would. The thought just about turned his stomach.

On the whole, the weekend—from Debra's bland and thoroughly unimaginative turkey dinner to Pat's plaintive pleas not to be taken back to the nursing home—was an experience that Al didn't think he'd be forgetting any time soon. Not that he wasn't going to try.

Sharon didn't seem at all inclined to have it out over their differing opinions of her family. Instead of launching into another shouting match they presided over an uneasy truce until they got home on Monday night. There, free of the uncharacteristic prudery that Sharon had shown in her brother's house, they had pounced on each other like a couple of crazed wildcats. Passion had been substituted for communication, and they hadn't quit until they passed out from sheer exhaustion.

Tuesday, of course, Al rose early and slipped off to work. This was the downside of returning home. All the problems he had left behind so blithely on Friday were still in existence now, and he was three days nearer the deadline. Al braced himself and attacked his work with vehemence.

By two o'clock he was fading fast. He had been at his desk for six hours straight, taking not so much as a two-minute break to fetch a glass of water. He had to unfold himself slowly, easing stiffened muscles back into motion. His neck ached, and his shoulders felt heavy and weary. He got to his feet with an enormous yawn.

In the reception area, he informed Eulalie that he was going for a walk. Then he made his way out of the administration wing with a dim intention of finding his way down to the chemistry labs, where at least he wouldn't have to deal with Demeter or Eleese. He got into the elevator and pushed a button, not really paying attention. When the door opened he walked, as if in a trance, down the corridor. Not until his key was in the lock did Al realize that he had come up to Sub-Level Three instead.

He grinned a little at the ridiculousness of it all, and unlocked the door to his quarters. The empty suite beckoned him with a promise of peace and quiet. He bolted the door behind him as was his habit and wandered into the kitchenette. Laving his hands quickly in the sink, he ran wet fingers through his hair and over the back of his neck, the gesture dispelling some of the bone-deep weariness already resurfacing halfway through his first day back from the all-too-brief and less-than-enjoyable holiday.

He dug a glass out of one cupboard, and went to the other, where the bottle of scotch from Mac was waiting for him. With a little smile of anticipation, he unscrewed the cap and tried to pour himself a generous serving. What he got was about three quarters of an ounce.

Al frowned and shook the bottle, but it was empty. How could that be? He'd only come up here once or twice before. Maybe four times. No, he realized. Maybe it had been more like ten after all.

He rubbed his chin ruefully, then knocked back what alcohol was left. He would have to pick up another bottle; that was all. He worked hard and there were days when he needed a little glass of something stronger than the coffee-scented dishwater they served downstairs. Come to think of it, it wouldn't hurt to stock the suite up with a few other necessities. Some canned groceries, spices, pasta. If he could take a little break to cook something halfway palatable, maybe he'd actually make time to eat. A weekend of three square meals a day had reminded him how sporadic that particular habit had grown again. He had to be careful with that. Didn't want any trouble with next year's physical. No one was as paranoid as a Navy sawbones who knew a guy's record.

There were other things it would be nice to have on sight, too. Soap, shampoo, towels, a razor. He hated the feeling of an unshaven face, and by the time he got home most nights he was bordering on furry. Forget five o'clock shadow: his was more like an eleven o'clock blackout.

Al went into the bedroom to check out the closet. Roomy and more than adequate for a couple changes of uniform. Wouldn't hurt to have something like that on hand, either. Really, what was the point of taking a mid-afternoon shower if you were just going to don the same sweaty garments you had been toiling in all morning? There was definitely a lot of potential here for making his long, difficult days just a little more comfortable.

Moving into the living room area, he found a pad of Starbright letterhead in the desk, and sat down to make out his list. He would cut out a couple hours early, maybe at seven in the evening, and stop by a supermarket and a liquor store. As he wrote a pleased smile spread across his face. Just a few little luxuries could go a long way to counterbalancing the daily drudgery and never-ending headaches that came with the job.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWMWMWM_

December came and Christmas loomed on the horizon. The Starbright Social Activities Committee was planning the annual yuletide celebrations with enthusiasm and skill. It was Al's first Christmas as Project Administrator, and he had wrangled some extra funds out of the budget to make sure that the fine ladies and gentlemen of SSAC had all the resources they needed to throw a really stellar party.

Meanwhile, however, his own work was weighing heavily upon him. Having finally reeled in the last of the reports from the heads of departments (Eleese's, naturally), Al was finally able to sit down to the mammoth task of summarizing and compiling the information in the most presentable and favorable way possible. He wasn't stupid. This report wasn't just a fact-finding exercise. It was his chance to influence the Committee in his favor—or turn them inexorably against him. He wasn't going to throw it away.

Fortunately Al was blessed with the gift of touch-typing, and he sat at his desk clicking away on his Smith-Corona like some kind of robot. Most of the time the words flowed from his mind down his arms and through his fingers to the keys and so onto the paper with a fluidity that surprised even himself. There were times, however, when he had to agonize over passages, writing and re-writing, looking for some kind of positive light to shed on the fact that Omega was now almost six months behind and that the light source was going to need a complete overhaul next fall, for example. At such times it was only the little haven he had managed to carve out on Sub-Level Three that kept him from a raging breakdown. He would pack up the troublesome passage into a manila folder and take it up to the little suite. There he would whip up six-minute alfredo sauce and a little penne, or soak in a hot shower, or just take his boots off and curl up on the sofa with his tumbler of whiskey, and in no time he was working through the problem.

Nevertheless, he was still staying late, still coming home to do no more than feed the dog, make emphatic love to his wife, and subsist into enervated slumber. It was at the end of a long week that he bent over his desk on Friday evening, viciously attacking his fourth draft with a red marking pencil, when there was a knock at the door.

"Who's there?" Al groused, annoyed at the interruption. Everyone in Admin had left three hours ago. This was supposed to be the time for peace and quiet and efficiency.

"D-Doctor Gushman, Captain. D-d-do you, could I…"

Al sighed. Lovely. "Come on in, Doc," he said, straightening up and smoothing the rumpled front of his uniform.

The door opened and the slightly portly scientist came timidly in. "I hope I'm n-not inter-r-r-rupting anything, C-C-Captain," he stammered.

"Nothing important," Al lied, smiling warmly. "Have a seat."

Gushman sat, his hands working in his lap. Al waited for him to voice his problem, but after a full minute's silence it began to look like they could both spend the rest of their lives not having this conversation unless he made the first move.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

"I n-need your advice," Gushman said hesitantly.

"About what?" Al pressed, trying to mask all traces of the very real frustration he was feeling at the absurdity of this interruption.

"Y-you know we all got a n-n-name for the g-gift exchange?"

Al nodded. It was a Starbright tradition. Everyone had the name of a coworker, for whom they had to purchase a gift costing no more than twenty dollars and no less than ten. Gifts would be exchanged the morning of the twenty-third, for the Christmas party was open to spouses and children, and it wouldn't be appropriate to have teambuilding exercises then.

"W-well, I got M-M-Miss Pharris," Gushman blurted. "I don't know what sh-she'd like, and since she's yo-our secretary, I thought… I thought…"

"That I might have some idea what she'd like?" Al asked.

Gushman nodded frantically. Al wondered fleetingly why he was so anxious about such a small problem. At least it _was_ a small problem: insignificant and easily resolved.

"Eulalie collects figurines of elephants," he said. "Get her a nice, unique elephant figurine. Make sure the trunk is up: that's good luck."

To his surprise, Gushman's expression took on a distinct tinge of terror.

"But—but where do I find _that_?" he asked frantically.

Al blinked rapidly. Geniuses. Just like children. "Drive into downtown Phoenix," he said. "Better yet: get one of the boys from the motor pool to take you. You'll save a fortune on parking. "Take Monday off and kick back a little."

"Oh, no, I couldn't possibly take Monday off," Gushman demurred, his stutter evaporating. "There's too much to do on Monday."

"Well, Tuesday, then," Al said. "I'll clear you right now."

"No, Tuesday we're running that new program on Sub-Level Six"

Beginning to see a pattern, Al's lip began to curl wryly. "And Wednesday?" he asked. "And Thursday?"

"Much, much too busy," Gushman mumbled.

"Then Monday it is, then," Al said firmly. "Administrator's orders. And forget the motor pool. I'll take a day and drive you myself. I need to get my own Christmas shopping done anyway."

"Th-thank you!" Gushman stammered. "Thank you!"

He got to his feet and left the room. Al buried his face in his arms. What the hell kind of suicide mission had he just volunteered himself for, anyway?

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

Downtown Phoenix was decked out in garlands and bows that looked oddly out of place against the desert sky. Al grinned at the juxtaposition, relishing it. Some people might have found it unnerving, but his happiest Christmases had all been spent in sunny climes, and he wasn't a stickler for clichés.

Of course, he thought with a shiver of memory, some of his most unhappy Christmases had been spent in the sun, too. Literally in the sun, the skin baking off of his naked body.

Forcing a smile, he started to converse loudly with his companion.

"There's a little guy on my street," he said. "His name's Stevie—Esteban. He really needs some nice, durable play-clothes. I figure I'll get him something like that, but a kid should get something fun, too, don't you think?"

"Y-yes, C-Captain," Gushman said.

Al grinned. "That's no good, Doc. You have to call me Al. I'm UA today, and I really don't appreciate all this formality. Al."

"A-Al. Al," Gushman tried valiantly.

"Great!" he said encouragingly. "This is awkward, since I'm the one that hired you, but I can't remember your first name."

"Ginger," Gushman whispered.

"Sorry?"

"Ginger. That's my first name. But nobody calls me that."

"Well, what do people call you?" Al pressed.

He shrugged. "Gushman," he said. "Sometimes Doctor Gushman."

"What about your friends?" Al asked.

"I d—don't have any," he mumbled.

"Sure you do!" Al exclaimed, rebelling instinctively against this melancholy revelation. "What about me? I'm your friend!"

"You are?" Gushman asked.

"Absolutely!" Al cried. "And I'm going to prove it! I'll give you a nickname!"

"A nickname?"

"Yeah! That's what friends do. At least, it's what all my friends did. All of us had nicknames: Stacker and Chip and Bingo and Walleye…"

"And if you give me a nickname, we'll be friends?" the young scientist asked, his brow furrowing with confusion.

"Naw, we're already friends," Al said. "If I give you a nickname you just won't have to put up with me calling you Ginger all the time."

Gushman laughed a little, a genuine smile finally lighting upon his face.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

By the time noon rolled around they had found an elephant for Eulalie. Al had also picked up a couple pairs of jeans and some colorful shirts for Stevie, a pair of sturdy and practical but handsome leather shoes and a silk blouse for Celestina, trinkets and candy for his office staff, a gift for the young chemist who's name he'd drawn, and a book of dirty jokes for Tony. For Sharon he bought a bottle of her favorite perfume, a tennis bracelet set with rubies, and a wide selection of very revealing lingerie (a stop that had appeared to embarrass Gushman to no end, but that Al suspected from the look in the programmer's eye he had actually enjoyed very much). He had every intention of leaving Sharon to shop for her own monster-in-law and recreant niece, but he picked up a set of Louis Armstrong tapes for Luke, as well as a black bowler redolent of Charlie Chaplain. At the same store, he tried to find a colorful fedora for his father-in-law, but to no avail. Instead he happened across a green trench coat that would match several of his hats, and settled on that. The one thing he hadn't found was a nickname for his companion.

Gushman's stomach growled loudly as they stowed the morning's purchases in the trunk of the Corvette.

"So, where do you want to go for lunch?" Al asked. "My treat."

"Oh, oh, no, Capt—Al," Gushman said. "No, I insist that—"

"You can get the next one," Al promised. With a twinkle in his eye he said, "I always buy on the first date!"

Gushman laughed a little, not quite comfortably. "Then you really should pick the restaurant," he said.

"You're missing the point of this being _my treat_," Al intoned in some annoyance. "Now pick before I get mad!"

"All-all right," Gushman said. He wasn't stuttering nearly so much anymore, and Al was beginning to think that it _was _just insecurity behind the habit. "I know just the place! It's a wonderful, quiet little restaurant… just let me think which way it is…"

After a moment of thought, he set off westward, and Al paused to plug the meter before following.

The restaurant was on a quiet street lined with bookstores and antique shops—and the jeweler where Al had bought Sharon's bracelet. Afterwards he wondered how he hadn't noticed it before, because the second they got within three feet of the building he recognized a very familiar, thoroughly nauseating smell. _Nuoc mam_. Armpit sauce.

He glanced up at the sign as he braced himself for an unpleasant hour. Sure enough, the place bore the telltale name of _Saigon Rose_.

MWMWMWMWMMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

The waitress seated them in a corner booth. Al tried to notice the way her breasts filled out the front of her _ao dai_, but the sad truth was that all he could see was the traditional garment, which despite its bright color and Americanized floral pattern was still unmistakably Vietnamese.

Gushman was babbling, something about how this was his favorite place and everyone was so accommodating. Al managed a thin-lipped smile, and tried to anchor himself as firmly as he could in the present. He told himself he'd never sampled much of Vietnamese cuisine, and there was absolutely no reason that anything about this place should remind him of his years Over There.

The waitress returned with tea and Gushman asked Al a question. He replied along the lines of _whatever you suggest: I've never eaten here before_, and then fell to picking at a corner of the dyed-reed placemat in front of him.

When the soup arrived, he wished he had paid more attention to what was being said. The second he saw its color he knew he was in for trouble. The orange puree exuded a smell of sweet yet savory spices, but it was unmistakably pumpkin soup. Al steeled his courage and lifted the spoon to his lips. It took all his resolve to force the first mouthful down, and a whole lot of tea to rinse away the aura. It wasn't the taste: the V.C. had never wasted flavor on their captives. It was the texture. Greasy and grainy and familiar.

He tried to hold back the memory, but it flooded in anyway. Summer of '67. He and a bunch of guys in his cellblock had arranged by covert communications to start a hunger strike. It had been Al's idea, inspired by the civil disobedience lessons learned in Selma a decade before, and the other men had agreed readily. It had taken the guards a while to put the whole thing together. Dysentery and hepatitis and other appetite-killing illnesses were endemic in the crowded squalor of the prison, and it wasn't uncommon for a guy to turn down his meals for a couple days. But after a while even Charlie had to notice that a dozen men had been fasting for a week. That's when the interrogations had started. From what Al heard afterwards they'd take a guy out and tempt him with food, try to reason with him. When he continued obdurate, they'd start with the "punishment": brutal beatings and other atrocities that didn't bear thinking about, then or now. The one they'd finally managed to break was Lance Tucker, a signalman who was way too young to be fighting, let alone the captive of the sadistic bastards who held him. Al tried not to hold a grudge against the kid. After all, he'd just been trying to save his skin.

The thing was, though, that he'd ratted out the leader, and Al was hauled up before Rabbit and Thumbscrew.

"Why you not eat, Carravicci?" Thumbscrew demanded. Then Al realized it wasn't the wiry interrogator, but the round Doctor Gushman, who had spoken. "Is there something wrong with the soup, Al?"

"Not at all," he said, smiling his brilliant, false smile. "It's lovely." He took another spoonful, choking it down and driving himself straight back into the memory.

"We want our rights," Al said defiantly. "We have rights under the Geneva Convention. Adequate food and medical care. Humane treatment. Freedom from coercion."

Rabbit laughed. "You are not prisoner of war. You are criminal. Black air pirate. You do not have rights. You suffer as you deserve to suffer. If you do not eat, you will be punished."

Thumbscrew brought a pitcher and a bowl, which he set on the table under Al's nose. He poured steaming pumpkin soup into the bowl. After ten days without food, his stomach roiled at the smell, and his head began to swim. God, he was hungry. He was weak with inanition. But he couldn't eat. Not until they gave in to his demands.

After arguing the matter for a while, they strung him up by his arms and began to beat him, pausing now and again so that Thumbscrew could wave the bowl in front of Al's face, promising that the torture would end if he would just take a sip. Just a little sip.

At last it became plain that they would either have to beat him into unconsciousness or try a different technique. So they cut him down and laid him on a table, his raw and bleeding back against the rough wood. They tied his feet to the legs, so that they were spread with the calves dangling over the edges and the corners of the table digging into his muscles. His wrists they bound to the other legs. His shoulders extended off the edge, and his head fell back. Rabbit smiled as Al fought the agony this position caused his mistreated body.

"You not eat, we make you eat," he said.

Then with finger and thumb he pinched Al's nose with a vice-like grip. Thumbscrew came forward with the pitcher, and as he realized what they were going to do Al sucked in the deepest breath his aching ribs would allow and locked his jaw.

Eventually, though, the air leaked out between his lips and finally he had to open his mouth to gasp for air. That was when his captors struck. With his free hand Rabbit rammed an iron file between Al's top and bottom teeth on the left side, forcing his mouth to stay open. Thumbscrew poured the soup, now stone cold and fetid, into his mouth. Al gagged and choked, unable to breathe, but still the guard kept pouring. Some of it wound up in his stomach, some in his lungs. More dribbled down his chin and the sides of his face, landing in a basin beneath his head. Then Rabbit withdrew, leaving Al to cough and struggle for a free breath.

Then he vomited, copiously and painfully, and this, too, ran over into the basin.

"You eat!" Rabbit ordered fiercely. Then Thumbscrew emptied the basin back into the pitcher and the process began again. Each time he regurgitated what they forced down, and each time they stopped his nose and recycled the liquid torture.

After an hour and a half Al couldn't bear it any more. His traitorous eyes leaking tears of anguish and humiliation, he sobbed, "I'll eat it. I'll eat." Then they had untied him and returned him to the low stool, and Thumbscrew had poured him a bowl of the foul fluid in the pitcher, and they had both watched gleefully as the prisoner ate it of his own volition. The strike was over.

Pumpkin soup. Al pushed the dish away. "To tell you the truth," he said to Gushman. "I'm not much of a soup person."

When the waitress returned he ordered a double scotch, which thankfully they had available. Then it was time to order the main course.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

Al forced yet another grin as the girl took away his untouched plate of noodles and vegetables. "Thanks, gorgeous," he said.

Gushman, who was relishing the last of his pork and armpit sauce, said, "Do you flirt with everybody?"

"Only women," Al said firmly, with good humor that he wasn't feeling. He drained the last of his scotch. "You know, I think I want to head home," he said, some of his weariness and desolation creeping unintentionally into his words. "Unless there's anything else you need?"

There wasn't, and they made their way back to the 'Vette. Al drove with singleminded determination, fighting back the phantoms and trying vainly to hide his misery.

"You're mad," Gushman said timidly. "You didn't like the restaurant."

"Sure I did," Al said brightly, lying through his teeth. "It's a really nice place. I'm just not hungry. Had a huge breakfast."

"You're mad," the programmer reiterated. "I'm sorry."

"Look, Gushman, I'm not mad," Al said firmly. "I promise I'm not mad. Okay?"

"Then we're still friends?"

"Sure! Sure, we are!" Al said. "I'll prove it…"

He groped through his mind, trying to find that spark of creativity that had led to the nicknaming of half the old squadron. He had nothing. Absolutely nothing. Then he remembered a time when nicknames had meant affection. Love. Pop and Trudy, maybe even Momma--had Momma ever called him anything but "you little brat"? Poppa and Trudy, anyway. Allie-boy. Allie. Well, what the hell? It was better than nothing.

"Gooshie," he said. "Mind if I call you Gooshie?"

Gushman laughed, a genuine, happy laugh. "I don't mind," he said. "Al."

Well, thank God for that, then. Morosely, Al turned out onto the freeway.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Al closed his eyes and let his fingers do the thinking. There was a knack to tying a bowtie, and a really experienced man didn't need a mirror to do it. There was only one mirror in the trailer, and Sharon had claimed it (and the bathroom) as her territory for the evening. At least she'd let him in long enough to shower.

It had seemed silly to drive all the way home just to spend an hour dressing before heading back out, but there had been no other way. Maps to the compound were strictly prohibited, and there was no way Sharon would be able to remember verbal directions.

Al finished with the tie and turned to Chester, who was lying in the armchair with his head on his forepaws, watching the scene with removed interest. "Whaddaya think, boy?" Al asked, tugging at his lapels and spinning with the finesse he had perfected on the disco floor.

Chester seemed to consider the question, doubtless taking in the hunter green trousers and matching silk shirt, the red vest with the gold threads, the green jacket and the gold lamé bowtie. The finishing touch was the red shoes, also a hangover from his post-NASA dancing years. The dog looked at his master's expectant face, and sat up, barking once and thumping his tail against the chair.

"That's my boy!" Al chortled. "Hey, Sharon! You almost ready to go?"

"God, you're as bad as my first husband!" Sharon shouted back from inside the bathroom.

"That's my goal in life, baby," Al told her. "So hurry up before I fossilize out here, okay?"

"Keep your pants on!" she exclaimed.

"I will 'til you wanna get 'em off, baby," Al promised lascivaciously.

"Mmh. Maybe we should have our own little party, huh?"

"Naw, honey, can't do that," Al said. "There's a whole Project full of ladies waiting to dance with their devilishly handsome Administrator tonight, and I can't disappoint them, now can I?"

"Oh, so you're taking me to a party so that you can desert me!" Sharon said, raising her voice over the sound of the sink. "How noble!"

"Don't you try that one on me!" Al said sternly. "We both know you can't wait to flirt with all those Marines!"

"Mm. Marines," Sharon mused. "Like the army, but tougher."

Al chuckled. "Babe, you don't know the half of it!"

"Close your eyes," said Sharon.

"Huh?"

"Close your eyes. I'm coming out."

Al grinned, arching his eyebrows at Chester. Then he closed his eyes. "Okay. I'm not peeking. Come on out!"

He heard the bathroom door open, and the creaking of the floor under Sharon's weight. Then a sultry voice said, "Well? What do you think?"

Al opened his eyes, panning them over his wife's luscious form the way a camera pans over a glowing starlet. Sharon was wearing a shimmering red mermaid-cut evening gown that rippled around her ankles and clung to her knees, hugging every curve from there on up. Her waist seemed impossibly sylph-like above her beautiful hips and almost-flat abdomen. The white bosom peeking out through the low neckline was smooth and perfect. Her arms held a golden wrap around her shoulders. She had done her hair up, for once, abandoning its usual tousled curls for an elegant coiffe. Her makeup artfully disguised many of the signs of her age, but she had done her eyes in such a way that the laugh-lines seemed almost accented.

"Well?" she said again.

Words were inadequate. Al stepped forward and slipped his arm around her waist, kissing her smooth, scarlet lips. "Whaddaya know," he murmured. "We match."

"That wasn't hard," Sharon told him. "You've only had that outfit laid out for a week an a half. So do you like the dress?"

"It's fantastic!"

Sharon's smile broadened. "Good. 'Cause you paid for it."

"You gold-digging minx!" Al exclaimed, smacking her playfully on the rump.

"Would you rather I wear the kind of tacky thing I can afford on my own?" Sharon demanded.

"I'd rather you wear your jogging sweats and your paintshirt, with a smudge of orange next to your nose," Al said. "That way no other guy would look twice, and I could have you all to myself!"

"_Well_," Sharon said, walking her fingers up his chest and brushing his lips; "if _that's_ the way you feel we really could just stay home and have our… _own_ little party."

"Sorry, doll," Al said. "Duty calls. Now let's go already! It's a long drive out to the corner of Nothing and Nowhere!"

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The SSAC had done their job well. The large gymnasium on Sub-Level One had been transformed into a ballroom, all traces of its original purpose hidden under the lavish decorations. By the time Al and Sharon arrived, the room was almost full of the Project employees and their families. Civilian and military alike, they were milling around, decked out in holiday garb, laughing and talking and nursing cocktails. Al maneuvered Sharon straight towards the bar, where he dragged out his wallet and bought them each a martini. He took a generous swig of his, and offered his wife his arm.

They had about fifteen minutes in which to make the rounds of the room before everyone was called to the tables for supper. Al and Sharon sat at the head table, separated by Doctor Thorgard and Demeter's daughter, who was her father's escort for the evening. The rest of the department heads and their partners occupied seats to either side. Doctor Eleese was the only one without an escort, which struck Al as an absolute absurdity. She was cold and usually condescending but she was also absolutely gorgeous. Mind you, everyone knew the story of the poor schmuck she'd strung along a couple years back, getting to the point where they'd set a date and booked the church before she decided that marriage wasn't where she wanted to go and jilted him. You'd have to be a real sucker to fall for her.

After the meal everyone gathered around the makeshift stage, where a couple of the girls from the Particle Accelerator struck up on the piano and the violin. There was a good half-hour of carol singing while the tables were cleared away and the dance floor set up. Then the real fun of the evening began.

Everyone knew you had to give the first dance to your wife, and Al dispensed this duty with pleasure, proud of his gilded goddess and revelling in the impressed looks so many of his colleagues were wearing. Most of them had only seen Sharon once or twice—some not at all—and she was an absolutely gorgeous specimen tonight. After the first dance, Al started to do the rounds of the Projects many young lovelies, and Sharon wandered off to amuse herself. After an hour or so Al had to admit that she was almost as adept at the art of flirting as he was. She had a never-ending supply of admirers, and never lacked a dance partner.

Being similarly looked after, Al tried to be wholeheartedly glad that she wasn't a wallflower needing constant attention from him, but when he saw men half his age clamouring for a dance with his wife, he couldn't help but feel a little jealous. There was Matt Dion, tall enough that Sharon could gaze docilely up at him instead of looking him square in the eyes, dancing a very close waltz. Or that kid McDufferin from Programming, the one with smooth blond hair and bright blue eyes, who hadn't so much as an appendectomy scar on his well-muscled body, pulling off a rumba that Jim Croce would've envied. Even old Doctor Kostky the philosopher seemed to have a particular charm, for when she danced with him their foreheads almost touched.

When Jeffrey Selensky, the head of Legal Affairs and Legislation, started to tango with his girl, though, Al couldn't stand it any more. He sent the pretty young thing from Human Resources spinning into Tony's arms, and when Jeff sent Sharon away from him Al caught her with a flourish, tipping her backwards and kissing her passionately.

She gasped a little in surprise, then smiled and straightened, ready to resume the dance with her new partner. Instead, Al pulled her off the floor, causing a minor furor that quickly ended as Selensky grabbed another girl and kept going.

"What are you doing?" Sharon hissed as Al strode past a group of kids bouncing happily to the music.

"Buying you a drink," Al answered, approaching the bar and slapping down a handful of dollar bills.

"I don't want a drink: I want to dance!" she protested.

"I don't care," Al said. "I want a drink and I want you to join me. Scotch and soda," he told the guy behind the bar.

"Mrs. Calavicci?" the man asked.

"A small martini, no olive," she said absently, turning her glare on her husband. "What are you so mad about?" she asked. "Two minutes ago you were having a great time."

"I don't care if you spend the whole night putting the make on snot-nosed science whizzes and the little baby Marines," Al hissed; "but you stay away from the lawyers, do you hear me?"

"I beg your pardon?" Sharon exclaimed indignantly. "As if _you're _being selective!"

"I told you, I don't care who you dance with, but you stay away from the lawyers," Al repeated. "Stay away from them, you hear me?" He slammed down his empty glass and dug out more money. "I don't want any wife of mine dancing with any goddamned lawyer."

It didn't make sense, even to him. Jeff was a great guy. He had a pretty young wife and two little kids. But something about seeing Sharon in his arms, knowing what the man did for a living… it wasn't to be borne.

Sharon, of course, had no inkling of the black associations her dance had triggered, and she was glaring at him. "Fine," she said coldly. "You mind pointing out which ones are lawyers, Don Juan?"

Al scowled back at her and took another long swallow of the scotch. "Just stay away from them," he ordered, slamming down the empty glass.

"Don't you walk away from me, Albert Calavicci!" she cried, but Al was already donning his most charming smile as he strode up to a lovely young thing whom he thought was a secretary in some department or other. He didn't see Sharon stomp her foot in disgust, much less the predatory way she zeroed in on the youngest, most handsome man within striking distance.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

When the party wound down to a crawl the two Calaviccis, both tipsy and giddy with exhaustion, made their way to the surface and across the parking lot to the Corvette. There was a bitter silence between them: shreds of the unfinished argument and deep, unacknowledged resentment of the fact that their mate had had no shortage of merry and attractive dance partners. Al started to batten down the top.

"Leave it up," Sharon said. "The wind will mess up my hair."

"I left it up all the way here out of deference to your sainted hair," Al said, his voice slurring a little. He was dimly aware that he'd had too much to drink and for some reason it wasn't really making him feel as good as it ought to. "If I hafta drive back in a closed car I'll go stir crazy."

"I'm not riding in an open car!"

"Fine!" Al barked. "Then get the guys from the motor pool to drive you!" Recognizing the vitriol in his voice, he eased off a little. "C'mon. Nobody'll see you. Besides, I don't care how you look."

"I'll bet you don't!" Sharon snapped. "You spent the whole night checking out other women and criticizing my dance partners!"

Al didn't want to go back to that argument. He especially didn't want to apologize. He knew he'd been unreasonable, and he didn't want to admit it. Instead he glowered blackly and got into the driver's seat, leaning over to open the passenger door with such force that it whacked Sharon's legs. Meeting him glare for glare, she got in and threw her skirt over her knees, slamming the door with a vengeance.

They rode in silence, speeding down the deserted back roads on their way back to Wickenburg. Al parked crookedly in the driveway in front of the trailer, and Sharon hopped out. Her hair was indeed the worse for the wind, falling down her back and over her shoulders like the tresses of a beauty queen from a Jane Austen novel. She slammed the door again and marched towards the door. One of her heels caught in the sod, and the shoe came off her foot. She bent and pulled it from the earth with a soft _pop_, then wrathfully removed the other and went the rest of the way in stocking feet. She dropped the key on the stoop, and had to rummage under the trailer for it, by which time she was so obviously livid that only the fact that it was half past one in the morning was all that was keeping her from shouting her frustrations to the moon.

At last she stormed inside, leaving the screen door swinging in her wake. Al turned his back on the sight and began to spread the tarp over the 'Vette, his jaw working with mounting rage. She was the most ridiculous, inreasonable, promiscuous woman he had ever met! She was worse than Ruthie's oldest sister! She was worse than his second wife!

When the car was covered, Al went inside, hoping she'd be showering or something. She wasn't. She was standing in the middle of the living room, bare feet planted far apart, shoes in one corner, sheer nylon stockings draping over the television, and hands on her curvaceous hips. Al spared her one grim glance, then went to the liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of bourbon. Now safely home, he could finish what he'd started at the bar, and maybe in the morning he'd find he'd forgotten the whole thing.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sharon demanded. "You put that bottle down and get in here! We need to talk about this."

"You need to talk about it," Al said. "No point me talking, 'cause you won't listen to a word I say. Women never do." He got down a glass and poured.

"Oh, so women never listen? Has it ever occurred to you that maybe that's 'cause men don't make reasonable demands? Why the hell shouldn't I dance with that guy? He's a nice guy, and you'll notice his wife had no problem with it!"

Al drained the glass and poured another. He was wrong, and he knew it, but that didn't mean that he was going to back down. No way in hell. Pride was stronger than truth. "I don't care what his wife had a problem with; I don't want you dancing with lawyers."

"Why?" Sharon taunted. "Don't want me running off and divorcing you like the asshole you are?"

Al stomped into the next room, glass in hand. "You wanna run off and divorce me, go ahead! Just remember it's the philandering spouse who gets dinged in court!"

"Philandering? Me? You were the one eying up every female in the room! God! That girl you were sitting next to at supper couldn't have been more than sixteen!"

"For your information, Jessica Demeter's seventeen!" Al snapped. "And the only reason you're jealous of her is she's more beautiful than you ever were, even twenty-five years ago when you were actually somewhere _close_ to her age!"

Sharon shrieked with rage, plucking the glass from his hand and throwing its contents full in his face. Al's eyes closed against the stinging alcohol, but only momentarily. Ignoring the discomfort, he lunged forward, grabbing Sharon's shoulders and shaking her. She gasped, shocked by the assault, and her head tilted back a little. Suddenly he was staring into her deep, beautiful green eyes.

The passions shifted, and suddenly they were groping for one another's clothing. The gown slithered to the ground, and Al thrust his arms backwards, out of his sleeves. He worked his hands up and down Sharon's smooth back before undoing the catch of her bra. It flew into a corner, landing right on Chester's head. With a tiny, indignant yelp the terrier danced out from under it and removed to the safer neighborhood of the kitchen. Al kicked off his shoes and the pants that had wound up around his ankles, and then he had Sharon's last garment off as she started to work his undershirt over his head.

A frantic knocking at the door did not quite penetrate the fog created by the ravenous kiss they were locked into. Al ran one hand up Sharon's side, cupping it around one soft casaba. She was still trying to get him to let go long enough for her to get the undershirt off, but her left leg was already crooking around his knee and the effort grew ever more frantic and ever less coordinated.

Then a panicked voice, sobbing in Spanish, finally registered in Al's brain. He let go of Sharon, forcing his undershirt back down around his middle and straightening the waistband of his shorts. With a little cry of indignation Sharon fell to earth amid the ruin of her frock. Al didn't even notice as he ran to the door, beyond which the familiar voice of his neighbor was begging him desperately to open the door.

When he did, Celestina Penja fell forward into his arms, shaking and sobbing. "Oh, Señor Calavicci!" she cried. "You are home, you are back!"

Al patted her back, letting her bury her face in his shoulder. "Ssh. Celestina, what's wrong?"

"All night I watch, I wait! Oh, you are back! Oh!" She straightened a little, still remaining within the protective circle of his arms, and dabbed at her eyes. "It is Esteban, _señor_! He is hurt, he is sick! I have no medicine. He cries and he cries that he is hurting, and when I touch him his skin burns! Oh, _señor_, please you have medicine for my baby?"

Al felt a cold band of terror closing on his heart.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Al closed his eyes against the desire to panic. "Stevie's sick?" he said as levelly as he could.

"Sí, yes, and he is hurt. He cries and he cries," Celestina exclaimed, her voice rising with anxiety. "Please, I have no medicine. Please you have medicine! Please you have medicine!"

It was more like a prayer than a question. Al took her hand and drew her into the house. "Okay, tell me what happened," he said.

"Last night he wakes, saying his stomach is hurting. I sing him to sleep. But this morning he is sick; all his breakfast comes up. And still he is sore. By night he cries and cries that he is hurting, and his head is hot. Oh, my baby, my baby." Celestina hid her head in her hands.

"I've got some aspirin. Do you think he'll take it?" Al asked, striding into the kitchen. "I'd better come over and take a look."

"Oh, please, please, yes!" Celestina cried, clinging gratefully to Al's arm as he hurried into the living room.

"Hey!" Sharon shrieked, snatching up her gown and trying to cover herself with the skirt. Al didn't spare his wife's state of undress a second thought as he pulled on his pants.

"I'm gonna go take a look at Stevie," he said, hurrying back into the kitchen and snatching the bottle of aspirin from the cutlery drawer. As he hastened from the house, he had just the presence of mind to force on one left shoe and one right shoe.

Celestina hurrying after him, Al ran up the street to the tiny trailer. The door hung wide, and the sound of weak, miserable whimpers floated out into the cold desert night. Al sprung up the step and into the single little room.

The candle Celestina used for evening illumination flickered on the table. In the shelf-bed lay Stevie, his forehead slick with sweat and his innocent eyes glazed with pain. Al threw the aspirin down on the table and knelt next to him.

"Hey, Stevie," he said gently, taking one chubby little hand in his and running his other index finger over a clammy cheek. "Stevie, buddy, can you hear me?"

"Mithta Al," the boy moaned thickly. "Mithta Al. Owie."

"It hurts, buddy?" Al asked, drawing back the covers and lifting up the ragged t-shirt that served the little boy as pyjamas. Stevie whimpered, and a fat tear trickled out of his eye. He nodded. "Okay. You're a brave boy. I just need you to tell me where it hurts, okay?"

He pressed the left side of the child's belly gently. Stevie looked up at him, his dark eyes as trusting as if Al had been some kind authority on the subject of illness. The fingers moved across, and suddenly Stevie cried out in pain. Al pressed the swollen place again, and as he released the child started to cry.

"Hurts me, hurts me," he sobbed.

"Okay, sport. Hang in there," Al said. Celestina came up behind him.

"See, Esteban, Señor Calavicci has brought medicine," she said, holding out a tablet and a glass of water.

Al shook his head. "We gotta get him to the hospital," he said. "He needs a doctor."

"Why? What is wrong?" Celestina cried.

"I think…" Al palpitated the child's abdomen again. Stevie whimpered again. "I think it's his appendix. Hey, Stevie, how 'bout we go for a little car ride?" He sat the child up and started to wrap him in the quilt.

"Car ride?" Stevie asked.

"But Señor—" Celestina began.

"We can't waste time," Al said. "He's got to get to a doctor." With a small grunt of effort he lifted the child and left the trailer. Celestina blew out the candle and followed.

A minute later Al was struggling to drag the tarp off of the Corvette. Celestina hurried to help him. She got into the passenger seat, and Al settled the boy on her lap. He ran into the house and caught up his keys and wallet. Sharon came running out of the bedroom, wrapped in her housecoat.

"Do you mind telling me what on _earth _you were thinking, letting a stranger into the house while I was lying there naked?" she roared. "I've never been so humiliated in—"

Al didn't have time to hear it. "I'm taking Stevie and Celestina up to the hospital," he said. "He's really sick."

"What? What's wrong?" Sharon exclaimed.

"What am I, a doctor? He's sick," Al repeated. "I've gotta go."

He sped from the house, and Sharon ran after him. "Hang on! You've been drinking!" she cried. Deaf to the protestation, Al flung himself into the driver's seat and took off as fast as he dared.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

The emergency room was surprisingly crowded. Al strode through, quilt-swathed child in his arms and anxious mother on his heels. The receptionist looked up.

"Name?" she said.

"Calavicci. He needs to see a doctor," Al said briskly. "I think it's his appendix."

"How do you spell that, please?"

"Damn it, we can fill the forms out later. He's been in pain since last night!"

"_Name_, please."

"Esteban," Celestina said. "Esteban Penja."

"That's P-E-N-J-A," Al said. "He's seven years old, and—" Stevie moaned a little, and a small hand worked its way free of the wrapping to touch Al's cheek. Al jiggled the child gently. "It's okay, buddy. It's okay. You're gonna be fine."

"Hurts me," the boy repeated.

"I know, sport. Just hang in there," Al choked out. He squared his shoulders as best he could, sending a pang of pain through the muscles of his left. "Look, could we hurry it up, please?"

"Just have a seat and fill out this form," the woman said, handing Celestina a clipboard. "Then we'll get you into the queue."

Fresh panic visited the distressed mother's eyes. Al tried to smile bracingly. "Let's sit down," he said. "You can hold Stevie: I'll fill out the form."

"_Sí, gracias_," Celestina whispered, moving towards the nearest pair of vacant plastic chairs.

With Stevie settled in his mother's lap, Al began to fill in the form, getting the details from Celestina. He noted with pride that his hand was steady as a rock and that the semi-inebriated fog that had clouded his mind earlier in the evening was gone now. He raked a hand through his tousled hair and returned to the desk.

"Here. Can we please see a doctor?" he said.

"You'll be triaged and put in line," the woman promised.

"Look, he's really sick! He's running a fever and everything!"

"As soon as we can put you through, Mr. Penja, we'll put you through," the woman said, kindness in her eyes but no nonsense in her voice. "Just have a seat and try not to worry."

"Calavicci," Al said softly, but he knew when he was defeated, and he moved off.

For what seemed like years he sat, his arm wrapped around Celestina and his leg bearing part of Stevie's weight. The child sobbed quietly now and then, calling out to Al or his mother. Still no one seemed to be admitted, and the line, wherever they had been placed in it, did not seem to move at all.

At last a nurse in clinical white called out, "Esteban Penja?", and Al took Stevie from Celestina, his tired arms protesting. He carried him through to the ward full of gurneys, and laid him down on a vacant bed.

"I'm just going to take a quick blood sample," the nurse said, feeling the child's head. "You're running a temperature, aren't you, honey?"

"How soon can the doctor see him?" Al asked, unwrapping the boy and lifting the sheets up over his small body. Celestina petted her child's cheek, tears streaming down her face.

"As soon as she has a minute," the nurse promised. "Don't worry. He's going to be fine."

"No, he hasn't been himself for months," Al said hastily. "Please, I'm sure it's his appendix!"

"If it is, the blood test will show it," she said, swabbing the boy's arm. "Papa's going to hold your hand, Esteban. This will hurt a little, but remember Papa's right here. Hold his hand," she prompted when Al didn't quite understand her view of the matter.

"Sure, right," he said, obeying. He bent over the small, fevered face. "Hey, sport. I'm right here. Your mama and me, we're right here."

"Mama? Mama?" Stevie echoed.

"Here, Esteban. Mama is here," Celestina promised, kissing his forehead and smoothing his chair.

"Here we go," the nurse said. "Hold Papa's hand tight."

Al didn't bother to correct her. Stevie was the important one, and to hell with what anyone else thought. "Hold my hand tight, Stevie," he said. "It's going to hurt a little."

The needle broke the skin and Stevie cried out in fear. Al gripped his hand and rubbed his arm as the nurse skilfully drew two vials of blood. "That's a brave boy," she said, removing the offending metal and wiping up the trail of red with a cotton swab, which she then taped over the puncture. "You get some rest. The doctor will be along soon."

She moved off, and Celestina began to cry in earnest. "My baby, my poor baby," she sobbed. "I pray, I pray to the Madonna." Her voice grew stronger, more determined, as she drew a worn wooden Rosary from her pocket. Crossing herself and kissing the medallion, she began to murmur the Apostles' Creed in Spanish.

Al knew that prayers were pointless, but he wasn't going to snatch away her only comfort. Instead he set about trying to keep Stevie happy. "Hey, sport," he said. "You want to play 'I Spy'?"

Stevie tried to nod bravely. "What do you thpy?" he asked.

"I spy with my little eye… something that is… blue," Al said, looking at the curtain dividing this bed from the next.

"Mama's dreth?" Stevie asked, eying the worn calico.

"Nnnnope!" Al said brightly. "Try again."

Stevie's brow furrowed with concentration. "The round thing?" he tried, pointing at an ear syringe lying on a tray of instruments.

"Nope!" Al repeated.

Stevie's face screwed itself into a mask of intense thought. He whimpered a little. "The thky?" he tried.

"That's right!" Al applauded. "The sky's blue, isn't it, Stevie?"

The child nodded, his lower lip trembling. Al stroked his cheek.

"It hurts a lot, doesn't it, sport?" he asked quietly.

"Hurts, Mithta Al," Stevie moaned. He started to cry. "I brave," he said, trying valiantly to deny the pain. "I not cry. I brave."

"Hey, that's no way to talk," Al said. "Even the bravest people are allowed to cry when they've got a hurt tummy. It's okay to cry then."

"Yeth?" Stevie whispered.

"Yes!" Al said. "I'll bet George Washington cried when his tummy hurt."

Stevie smiled. He loved the story of George Washington. One of the aides at school had told it to him, and it had captured his imagination entirely. "George, George," he said.

"Yeah, sport. George. You know, one time him and Jefferson, they went to a party and they ate _ten_ of Mama's tortillas! They had really bad stomach aches, and they cried a bit, but the doctors came and made them all better," Al said.

This time Stevie's response was softer, almost drowsy. "Yeth?"

"Yes," Al whispered, smoothing the damp curls clinging to the child's forehead.

Time crawled by. The emergency ward bustled around them, but in their little space the Penjas and Al remained still and almost silent. Celestina's beads clicked, and her voice continued, low and rapid, reciting the same prayers over and over. The same empty prayers, Al thought bitterly as he tried in some small way to alleviate Stevie's suffering. He wished with all his heart that he could take the child's agony on himself. What had to be soul-killing, mind-numbing anguish to the sick little boy would be nothing to him. If only he could steal away Stevie's pain. If only he could spare him this misery.

If only the doctor would come. It must have been hours now since they'd come in, and still there was no sign of a white coat and stethoscope. The nurse came back with a pitcher of water—plastic cup for Stevie and a couple of paper ones for Al and Celestina—but all she did was reiterate that the doctor would be here as soon as she could be. After a while she returned and they had to coax a urine sample out of the pain-wracked child, but still the doctor did not come.

The greatest _if only_ of all was the worst. If only, Al thought miserably as he watched Stevie doze fretfully, the fever still smouldering and the pain still furrowing his face, he could forget for a minute about Douglas Kennedy.

Doug was a pilot. Air Force. Twenty-two years old, shot down on his fourth goddamned mission. Charlie liked to beat him, 'cause the kid had the tenacity of a hero. He'd always come out with a smart remark or some kind of retort. He was the best liar under torture that Al had ever seen. That kid gave him the strength he needed to fight through another day. That was the kind of guy Doug was.

It was in the summer of '69 that he got sick. Started with a stomach ache, and then he tossed his rice—in itself not an uncommon occurrence even among the healthy, but Doug couldn't even keep boiled water down, which was another thing altogether. By sunset the pain was worse, bad enough that he was actually complaining. Before midnight he was gasping and moaning. His appendix, Macalchuk had said, and medic that he was he ought to know. Then suddenly the pain stopped, and the hard stone of swelling in his right side was gone. He died before morning, and the V.C. didn't care.

Stevie wasn't going to die, Al told himself. The doctor would come, and find out what was wrong. Maybe it wasn't even his appendix. If it was, they'd just take it out. Al had had it done himself when he was a couple years older than Stevie. It wasn't such a big deal. As long as you got medical attention right away, you'd be fine.

Right away, a nasty voice hissed. But Stevie hadn't got help right away. He'd been in pain last night. More than twenty-four hours now since the first pain. By this time, Doug Kennedy had been dead.

But Doug had been starved, worn down by months of torture and deprivation, with no hope for a future any different from the recent past. Stevie was well fed, cared for, with a Mama who loved him and a beautiful, full life ahead of him. Stevie wouldn't die. Not now that they'd got him to the hospital.

"Mr. Penja? Mrs. Penja?"

A young woman with feathery brown hair peered around the curtain. She smiled kindly as she stepped into the enclosure. "I'm Lenore Ivers. I'm one of the residents here. Now, I understand that Esteban's been having some stomach pains…"

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWMMWM 

The physical examination was concluded quickly, and Lenore took her leave to check on the blood test results. Celestina resumed her Rosary where she had left it. From what little Al remembered of the childhood ritual she was on her third cycle, now praying the Glorious Mysteries. The real not-so-glorious mystery, as far as Calavicci was concerned, was why a God who said He was good and loving let the kids like Stevie and Trudy be the kids who got sick. Like they didn't have troubles enough.

Stevie had slipped into a restless sleep when Doctor Ivers came back. She lifted the boy's ratty night garment and palpitated his abdomen again. Stevie whimpered but did not awake. Celestina's Rosary dropped to her lap as she petted his poor little face.

The resident frowned. "It _looks_ like appendicitis," she said.

"But?" Al said, his voice coming out more harshly than he intended.

She looked up at him where he stood defensively by the head of Stevie's gurney. "But the white cell counts are off," she said. "Too few functioning cells for it to be an infection."

She turned back to the child as if she expected Al to fall silent at this answer. Not a chance.

"It's appendicitis," he said. "I've seen it before."

"We can't just cut him open without more conclusive evidence, Mr. Penja. I'm sorry," she said. "We can hold him for observation today, but—"

"Damn it, he needs to get that thing out before it bursts!" Al cried. "You think it's his appendix, don't you?"

"I'm telling you, he hasn't got an infection," she said. "The blood work just doesn't support it."

"Maybe the blood work is wrong," Al said.

Lenore shook her head. "We have an excellent pathology staff. They're certain there's no infection there. Without an ultrasound there's no way that we can confirm it's his appendix until he develops more specific symptoms."

"And if he doesn't?" Al snapped. She turned helpless eyes on him. He frowned. "Why can't he get an ultrasound?"

Lenore sighed. "Mr. Penja, this visit is already costing you upwards of a thousand dollars. If we do wind up operating, you're looking at considerably more. Now, I want to help Esteban, but the hospital can't afford to be saddled with any additional charges in the event that you default—"

"_Default_?" Al roared, grabbing her shoulders and pulling her to her feet. "You listen to me!"

"Mr. Penja, I'm sorry, but for people of your economic background it's a calculated risk, and that risk doesn't include ultraso—"

"First of all!" Al exclaimed, releasing her wrathfully. "My name isn't Penja. It's Calavicci. Second, I'm a captain in the United States Navy. Here—" He dug into the pocket of his pants and pulled out his identification, which he thrust into her hands. "And here's my goddamn credit card! You'll get your money. Whatever tests Stevie needs I'll pay for: just damned well hurry up!"

Celestina got to her feet. "No, señor, it is too much!" she exclaimed.

"Sit down!" Al ordered. "I'm not going to let Stevie die!" He turned back to the frightened resident. "If an ultrasound's what he needs you book him in for one right now, you hear? We're not going to sit here and wait till it gets worse!"

"I'm sorry," Ivers stammered, staring at Al's ID. "I didn't realize—"

She raked her eyes over his body and Al looked down. His once immaculately pressed dress pants were rumpled from hours in the waiting room. He was without a shirt, only his undershirt covering his chest. Scars showed on his bare arms and shoulders. He was wearing one yellow shoe and one brown, neither of which was tied properly. And, he realized ruefully, he reeked of liquor from the bourbon face-wash Sharon had given him. "Yeah," he said, running a hand through his disordered hair. "I guess I don't blame you there. Maybe we've both learned a little lesson about appearances, huh?"

"I'm sorry," she repeated, and there were tears in her eyes when she looked at him. "It isn't that I don't want to do my best for every child who comes through here, but…"

She cast her eyes away in shame. Al smiled gently and cupped his hand on her cheek.

"But you have your orders," he said, his voice wry and kind. "I know what it's like. Ultrasound?"

She nodded. "I'll just alert them."

She left swiftly. Al turned back to the bed. As he did, Celestina rose again, panic born anew in her eyes. "Esteban!" she cried. "He could die?"

Al ran around the gurney and enfolded her in his arms, stroking her hair soothingly. "No, no. He's not going to die," he promised. "That's just me being stupid and dramatic. You hear me? I was just being stupid. They're going to give him another test, and they'll take him in for a little surgery, and he'll be fine. Just fine. Don't worry."

"_Gracias, Señor Calavicci_," Celestina whispered, clinging to him. "_Muchos, muchos gracias. Usted es un angel. Usted es un angel."_

"Naw," Al said softly, rocking her from side to side. "I'm just a stubborn idiot."


	20. Chapter Nineteen

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The telephone on the other end of the line rang eight times before a groggy voice forced out a strained, "Hello?"

"Hey, babe. It's me," Al said, resting his aching head against the melamine divider.

"Ugh. Where are you?" Sharon asked thickly.

"The hospital," Al said, annoyed. Did she really think he was out grocery shopping or something? "Stevie's under the knife right now."

Some of the muzziness vanished from Sharon's voice. "You mean like surgery?"

"No, they're holding a meat cleaver over his head for kicks. Of course I mean surgery!" Al snapped. His nerves were frayed and he had no time for stupid questions.

"Don't take that tone with me, Albert Calavicci!" Sharon growled. "I feel like someone did a root canal between my eyes, and I dragged myself out of bed to take your phone call!"

Al flinched. Of course, she was hung over. If he had got any sleep at all he probably would've been too, instead of just having this dull headache thrumming through his temples. "Look, hon, I'm sorry," he said. "I'm just worried about the kid, okay?"

"What's wrong?" Sharon asked, almost concerned.

"Appendix," Al said. "Took them all damned night to figure it out. You feed the dog?"

"I just got up," she protested.

"Please feed Chester before you go back to bed," Al said firmly. "I have no idea how much longer I'm going to be here, but I'm going to see it through with Celestina. Makes me sick the way they tried to treat her. Catch you later, gorgeous, okay?"

"Okay. I love you, baby," Sharon said.

"Just remember to feed Chester," Al told her, hanging up quickly and turning back to the alcove that served as a waiting room for the families of those in the operating rooms.

It was an odd assortment of people. There was an older man happily reading a magazine, and another who looked almost catatonic with anxiety. A young woman was breast-feeding a baby. From the looks of the children's books and Barbie doll that peeked out of the open diaper bag, she had an older child in surgery. At least that didn't seem to be anything terribly serious, for she wasn't particularly fretful. A thirty-something man with a shiny new wedding ring sat with his head in his hands. And sitting with her faded quilt folded into a pad on her lap, Celestina thumbed her rosary beads as if they were her only tie to reality.

Al sat beside her, curling his arm around her and stroking her far shoulder. She leaned into the comfort of the embrace, and her weary head fell on his shoulder, but still her lips muttered the prayers. Al rested his cheek against the silky raven pillow of her hair and stared off into space, reliving the hellish night in minute detail.

After Lenore Ivers had left, it had taken less than twenty minutes for a couple of orderlies to arrive and wheel Stevie in for ultrasound. Al had tried to joke both the boy and his terrified mother through the strange procedure, which the attending physician (an actual physician, Al thought uncharitably, and not some resident!) seemed to think gave proof positive that there was something wrong in the child's cecum, whatever that was. Anyway, despite the contradictory blood work Stevie was booked in for emergency surgery and sent into pre-op at nine-thirty in the morning. It was now almost noon, and they were finally removing the offending organ.

Celestina finished her cycle and let the rosary fall to her lap. Al straightened as she raised her eyes to his face. "Señor, he will be well?" she asked softly.

"Yes, honey, he's going to be fine," Al promised. "Just fine."

"Tell me… what do they do to him?"

Al was torn between laughter and consternation. She didn't have any idea what was wrong with her child: she had been trusting his judgement blindly and exclusively. It was at once gratifying and horrific. "Well," he said, furrowing his brow. "What happened was that a little sack in his stomach got plugged, and then he got an infection. They're going to open him up, right here—" He pointed to the right side of his own abdomen. "—and take it out. Then they'll stitch him up, and in a few days he'll be good as new."

"Good," Celestina repeated, "as new?"

"Sure," Al said softly. "Absolutely."

Her brow wrinkled with worry. "But if they take a piece out, he will miss it. Does he not need it?"

Al chuckled a little. "Naw. You don't need your appendix. I had mine out when I was just about his age, and I've never missed it. Here, I'll show you."

He drew his arm back from around her shoulders and lifted his undershirt, pointing to an ancient pucker where a medical intern at a Catholic hospital in New York had sewed a charity case clumsily up. "That's where they cut me open. They pulled out that little appendix, and in a week I was running around making life hell for everyone again."

Celestina reached out a finger and gently traced the mark, frowning thoughtfully. "And Esteban will have scar?" she asked.

"Yeah. Not as big as that one, though. They did mine almost forty years ago: things have advanced since then." Al smiled as a look of relief eased some of the lines of worry from the mother's face. He'll be fine. Just fine."

He moved to pull the meager covering over his abdomen, but Celestina's hand prevented it. She was staring at his scars, and not the appendectomy mark. "Oh, Señor Calavicci," she whispered, pulling the knitted fabric higher and following the snaking disfigurements. "Oh, who has done this? Who has hurt you?"

"It's nothing, Celestina, it's nothing at all," Al protested, but the woman was not so easily dissuaded. Imperious hands forced him forward and pulled the garment up around his shoulders. Celestina's hand moved over his marred back.

"Oh!" she cried, grief and desolation rampant in her voice. "Oh, who has hurt you? Who has dared? I will hurt them, I will kill them! Oh, tell me who has hurt you!"

Burning with shame, Al pulled out of her grip, getting to his feet and backing away as he scrambled to hide what he could of the shameful blemishes. "Celestina, it's nothing," he said tersely, aware of the stares of the other people in the room, and hating his body for betraying him to this kind of exposure. "It's nothing. Stop it."

She was crying now. "They hurt you. Who hurt you?" she whispered. "Who would hurt you, so kind, so brave? Oh, the evil that has done this."

Al sat down again, taking her by the shoulders. "You listen to me," he said, bending so that he could see her eyes. "They're nothing. It happened a long time ago, and it's in the past, and I don't talk about it. So knock it off. Understand?"

Celestina raised her head and tried to nod, but instead her hand flew to the white bands encircling the biceps of his left arm. They were mirrored on the right: rope burns infected and reopened too many times to count. "Your arms, your poor arms," she whispered. Before Al could stop her she bent and kissed the hideous marks, murmuring something in Spanish that he didn't quite catch. Then she straightened and took up the rosary again. "I pray," she said firmly. "I pray for you, kind Señor Calavicci who has saved my son. I pray."

Al's first instinct was to tell her that she shouldn't waste her prayers on him, but he knew the kind of comfort such women took in their rituals, and he couldn't take that away from her even if he didn't believe in it. Instead he took the blanket from her lap and wrapped it around his shoulders, hiding the offensive scars. The other people in the room had gone back to whatever they had been doing, but Al couldn't help but sense their scornful thoughts. Shivering, he hugged the blanket to his body and closed his eyes against the humiliation.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

"It was his appendix, all right," the physician said, looking at the rumpled and careworn couple before him. "We've taken it out: there were no problems at all. He's in recovery now and will probably wake up in about two hours. I'd like to put him on antibiotics just to prevent any infection of the incision. Children like Esteban are more prone to complications."

"That's fine," Al said. "Whatever you need to do."

"All right," the man said. "That brings up another thing. I don't like that his blood work didn't show up properly. I think it might be a good idea to run a few more tests, just to make sure it was just a fluke."

Al's eyes narrowed. "What'd cause the blood work to come back negative?" he asked suspiciously.

The doctor shrugged. "Any one of a number of things," he said. "Could be as simple as Pathology got the blood samples mixed up. Just doesn't hurt to be on the safe side, Captain. There's nothing to worry about, ma'am," he added, putting a hand on Celestina's shoulder. "Your little guy's a real trooper."

He moved off and Celestina turned questioning eyes on Al. He smiled encouragingly. "Stevie's sleeping," he said. "The nurses need to get him cleaned up and comfortable, and then we'll be able to go and see him. In the meantime how 'bout I get us some coffee. You hungry?"

A surprised look came over Celestina's face. "I—yes. Yes, I am hungry," she said. It was obvious that the thought hadn't crossed her mind until Al brought it up.

"I'll get some lunch, too. What do you want?"

She shook her head. "What is easy," she told him.

"All right," Al said, settling her on the waiting room sofa. "You wait here, and I'll be back in a couple minutes."

She nodded obediently. As he moved off towards the elevator he saw her draw her rosary out of the pocket of her house dress yet again.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMW 

He found the cafeteria with no trouble. It was in the main floor atrium, and at this time of the afternoon it was quiet. He joined the short line, and was soon filling two cups with coffee—black for Celestina, Sweet 'n Low laced for himself. The entrée was a dubious-looking rubber lasagne, so he picked up a couple of turkey sandwiches instead. The clerk made the mistake of giving him a dubious once-over.

"You got a problem?" Al snarled.

"No, sir. Five ninety-eight, please," she said. As she took his money, however, he caught her running the bills through her fingers.

"That's right," he bit back, annoyed beyond all telling and weary beyond all caring. "I'm a counterfeiter and a drug dealer. Oh, and I drown puppies in boiling tar, and I'm really wasting my time scamming your whole organization to get an appendectomy for my best customer!"

She backed away, the terror in his eyes probably due more to his tone than to his words, but nevertheless very real. Al felt a pang of remorse as he rubbed the rough skin of his chin.

"Look, I'm sorry," he said, pulling out his wallet again and passing her the Naval ID. "I've been up all night with a sick kid, and I'm a little short-tempered. I didn't mean to tear a strip off of you. I know I look like shit and it's not your fault, but it's been a really long day."

The girl was staring at him as if he was a space alien who had just stepped off the mother ship and announced that he was taking her with him to the ends of the Universe. He scowled in puzzlement.

"What?" he said.

She pointed at his card. "You're… _you're _Albert Calavicci!" she gasped. "Lieutenant Albert Calavicci, the Silent Warrior of Cham Hoi!"

Al shook his head, chuckling and reaching for his card. "You've got me confused with someone else, kid," he said.

"No, no, you are! Oh! Oh, you're… I'm… oh! Can I… can I have your autograph? I've got the book right here…"

She ducked down under the till and brought up a hardcover book. She opened it to the endplate and grabbed the pen from her breast pocket. "Please, would you sign it?"

Al took the book, but was too busy looking at it to bother with the pen. The cover was painted with the image of a Vietnamese village, in the center of which was a tiger cage, a twisted figure crouching inside. Nearby a couple of VC grunts had another man strung between two posts. The book was written by a Margaret Dawson, and the title proclaimed it to be The Men Left Behind—The True Story of Robert White and Albert Calavicci.

He flipped it open to read the flap of the dust jacket. _March 28, 1973_, it read. _The North Vietnamese government declares that the last of the American POWs have been returned to the United States. That same day, a defector of the last bastion of the Viet Cong informs international press of the presence of two more captives deep in the jungle near Cham Hoi. These men, Captain Robert White, USAF, and Lieutenant Albert Calavicci, USN, become the last Americans ever to return from the shadows. Margaret Dawson takes us inside their four hellish years forgotten at the mercy of the Viet Cong, revealing atrocities kept from the eyes of the world until now, and raising the all important question: who else was LEFT BEHIND?_

"Where'd you get this?" he croaked.

"Bookstore!" the girl enthused. "It's the most gripping tale of courage and heroism I've ever read. You're a living embodiment of liberty—"

Al snatched the pen from his fingers. "Name?" he asked.

"_Melissa_," she sighed dreamily.

Al scrawled _To Melissa: thanks for the coffee_ inside the front cover, scribbled his name and gave the abomination back to her, then snatched up the cardboard cup tray and the two sandwiches and fled.

He couldn't believe it. He didn't want to believe it. He couldn't believe that Bobby, the man he'd escaped hell with, would sell that story to some sensationalist. It was too horrible for words. What had happened over there didn't need to be put in a book. It needed to be forgotten by everyone as quickly as possible. It shook the very core of his being to think what that clerk might know about him.

She couldn't know anything. It was all lies. It had to be, he told himself as he stepped off the elevator and returned to Celestina. Bobby wouldn't… he just _wouldn't_.

Nevertheless, the very sight of the food sent Al's stomach roiling. Therefore while Celestina ate he nursed his coffee morosely, and when she went to wash her face, he chucked his sandwich in the nearest wastebasket.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

At last a nurse came and brought them to a room elsewhere on the ward, where Stevie, pale and still, with an I.V. in his arm, lay sleeping in a bed with a blanket covered in colourful balloons. Celestina ran to his side with a tiny cry, and Al had to rush forward to grab her before she could scoop the child into her arms.

"Easy, easy," he said. "He's not quite ready to be held yet." He eased her onto the chair next to the bed and gently pulled back the covers. He lifted the hospital gown to show her the bandage wrapped around his abdomen. "He'll be sore for a couple days," he explained, indicating the dressing. "You'll have to be gentle, careful not to hurt him."

He replaced the coverings with care, then took Celestina's wrist and led her back to the bed. He put Stevie's free hand in hers. "He'll wake up pretty soon," he said as Celestina smoothed her baby's cheek, tears glistening in her eyes. "He's going to be fine."

Sure enough, within twenty minutes the dark eyes unveiled themselves, and a stuttering voice evoked the name, "Mama?"

Celestina let out another cry and swooped to kiss the child's cheek. "Esteban! Sí, sí, Mama is here!"

A slightly goofy smile lighted on the boy's face. "Mama!" he said, lifting his arms to hug her. She returned the embrace very gently, holding only his shoulders.

"_Esteban, mi corisone, mi angel_," Celestina sobbed quietly, kissing the dark curls.

Sensitive of the intimacy of the moment and feeling like a voyeur and an intruder, Al slipped out in to the corridor, leaving the door ajar so he could hear if he was needed.


	21. Chapter Twenty

CHAPTER TWENTY

Sharon flung her brushes into the turpentine and stomped into the living room. Chester trotted after her, and she began to rant as if the dog could actually do something about the situation.

"One minute he's ready to shack up with a vengeance, the next thing I know I'm in a heap on the floor while he's got his arms around his little Mexican doll!" she railed furiously, peeling off the paint shirt and undoing the top two buttons of her blouse. "If _that's _not enough, he brings her in here while I'm sitting there with what the good Lord gave me hanging out for all to see! Then he takes off at two in the morning—_drunk!_—to drive that woman's kid to the hospital, and I don't even hear from him 'til noon! And after that? Not a word, not a phone call. For all I know the kid's dead, or he's been arrested for running around half-naked, or abducted by the mob 'cause they think he works for a rival Family!"

She glared at Chester, who yelped and stood up on his hind legs, doing the trick Al called "dancing". He overbalanced and fell back down on all fours, but a moment later he was jumping against her leg, returning for more each time he bounced off. Sharon began to pace wrathfully.

"Christmas Eve, and what am I doing? Bouncing off the walls of this miserable little trailer, waiting for _that man_ to come home from spending the day at the hospital with a couple of strangers!" she cried. "Oh! And how, exactly, do I know he's really _at_ the hospital? For all I know that's just an excuse, and he's halfway to Mexico with that woman already!"

The roar of the Corvette made Sharon instantly repentant of those thoughts. Al had torn through here like the Devil was after him, and he wouldn't have done that if his intention had been to take off on her. He would have planned things more carefully. He would have, at the _very_ least, put on a shirt.

She heard him fumbling with the lock, and smoothed her wild hair, trying to look as desirable as possible so as not to derail any attempts to pick up where they had left off the night before. Then the door opened and Al trudged into the house. When he came around the corner from the kitchen, Sharon stared in disbelief.

He hardly looked human. His skin was a horrible, sallow color. The shadows under his eyes were as black as fresh bruises. Every one of the fine lines on his face, all but invisible at other times, stood out like a crevice. It was as if ten years of tireless labor had fallen on his shoulders overnight. He stooped, his pale arms limp, and his step was heavy. His hair was tousled and disordered, standing in every direction. His corneas were red and bloodshot with weariness. The gauntness of his features could not be denied. In his rumpled and sweat-soaked clothes, he showed no trace of her handsome, energetic and dapper husband.

"Al?" she whispered.

"Sher," he mumbled, trudging past her and into the bedroom. Sharon followed.

"Is Esteban… is he…"

"He's fine, he's sleeping," Al said. "He's gonna be fine. Just came to grab a shirt. Everyone's looking at me like I came down the mountain with Jed Clampett."

"Y-you mean you're going back?" Sharon asked. "I don't think—"

"Yeah," he said. "Just going to pick up some stuff for Celestina. She'll stay the night, but they won't let me. Nozzles."

Sharon moved forward and wrapped her arms around his waist. She didn't think he realized how heavily he leaned into her embrace as he pulled a shirt off of its hanger. "You shouldn't go back, baby," she said.

Al shook his head intractably. "Promised Celestina," he said. "And I wanna check on Stevie."

He pulled loose of her hold and moved towards the door, stumbling and catching himself against the bed. With a heavy sigh, he sank down onto the mattress, drawing his hand across his head as if trying to physically push the exhaustion into the deepest recesses of his mind. Sharon came to him and pulled his head against her stomach, petting his hair.

"Al, you can hardly walk," she said. "You tell me what Celestina needs, and I'll take it up to the hospital. Besides, that way she'll know you're not her only support."

"She'd like that," Al allowed. "Be good for her to know she has someone else to count on. Someone who…"

His voice trailed off and he shook his head. "Needs a nightgown, change of clothes. Toothbrush. Told her I'd pick up some supper."

"Anything else?" Sharon asked. Al shook his head.

"Gotta hurry," he said. "Visiting hours end at eight. Pediatrics on the fourth floor."

"I'll find it," Sharon said. She made it as far as the door when she paused. "What's her address?"

Al laughed hollowly. "It's number 39," he said. "Don't need a key: locks been broken for a year and a half."

Sharon didn't like that, but she left the room. The last thing she saw as she went was Al falling backwards onto the bed with an almost inaudible moan.

In the gathering dusk, Sharon made her way to the end of their street, where a tiny trailer, the kind that well-to-do suburban couples took on cross-country jaunts—or from the look of this one, _had_ taken on cross-country jaunts some time in the 'fifties—huddled in a lovingly kept yard. Her stomach twisted unpleasantly as she opened the door and entered the humble dwelling.

She found the light switch, but nothing happened when she switched it on. She groped for the light in the kitchen area, but that, too, didn't work. Then she tried the stove. Nothing. There wasn't any electricity.

Her eyes adjusting to the dim light, she spotted a book of matches and a candle on the little table. She lit the latter with the former, and a suffused glow filled the small space. She looked from the shelf made up as a bed to the tiny kitchenette with its peeling cupboards, then peered into the closet-like space housing the toilet. She went to the sink in the kitchen and turned the tap. It gurgled, and a jet of yellowish water spurted out. At least they had plumbing, she reflected.

The room, though tiny and poverty-stricken, was immaculately clean. Even the worn carpet looked as if it had been lovingly shampooed. Under the bed there were drawers. Sharon knelt and opened one. Inside was a Spanish Bible, a velvet jewellery box that she recognized as one Al had picked up on their honeymoon, a porcelain figurine of the Virgin Mary, a worn wooden hairbrush with a beautifully carved handle, a photograph of Celestina and a young man in one another's arms, and another of a chubby baby swaddled in colourful shawls. That had to be Esteban, Sharon reflected. In the very bottom of the drawer was an old leather sleeve, inside of which were two birth certificates: Celestina's, from California, and Esteban's, from Arizona; and a notice of deportation for a man named Carlos Emilio Penja. Celestina's husband.

Feeling like an intruder, Sharon took the hairbrush, closed that drawer and opened the next. It held a battered sewing kit, scissors, a whetstone, and a box of ornate tin cookie-cutters, which with the kerosene hotplate on the kitchen counter serving as the only source of cooking heat, Celestina would not have much use for. The next drawer had a little knapsack in it, and three simple English books that Sharon was almost certain neither occupant of this trailer could read. The fourth and final drawer held the Penjas' meager supply of clothing.

Sharon picked out the least shabby of the two ragged nightgowns, and the prettiest dress, which was cheap but practically new. She found a couple pairs of well-darned undergarments and a threadbare chemise as well. These she folded carefully into a bundle. Celestina's toothbrush was by the sink, but there was only a ceramic box of baking soda in place of toothpaste. Sharon left it, deciding that she'd swing by a drugstore and pick up a tube of the real stuff.

Taking a last look around the wretched little room, Sharon snuffed the candle and left, closing the door firmly behind her. There was no need for a lock, she reflected unhappily. They had nothing—and she meant _nothing_—worth stealing.

She returned to her own trailer, which was in comparison a palace of luxury, and got a canvas tote bag from her studio. Into it she placed Celestina's clothes. She peered into the bedroom, where Al was lying curled on his side, rubbing Chester's belly while the terrier thumped the mattress with his hind leg, eyes closed in bliss. Sharon caught up her purse and the keys to the Corvette, and took off.

There was a strip mall a quarter of a mile from the trailer park, and she stopped there to grab some toothpaste. On impulse, she picked up a new toothbrush too, recalling the splayed bristles of the one in the car. At the till there was a display of children's toothbrushes, too, with fairies or race cars or jungle animals moulded into the handles. She grabbed one of the latter as well, and a box of Chiclets.

She was on her way back to the car when she caught sight of the small Sears outlet at the other end of the building. Thinking of the ragged nightie, she strode off in that direction.

She didn't know Celestina's size, but she could guess, and anyway most women liked their sleepwear loose. She found an ankle-length cotton garment in a pattern of blue roses. It wasn't her kind of thing, but it looked like what Celestina's once had been before years of wear and hand-laundering had turned them into patches and tatters. Besides, the color was gorgeous and would suit the other woman's complexion perfectly. A quick inspection of the shelf of sundries turned up a matching pair of terrycloth mules. Sharon then stopped by the underwear to pick up a two packs of half-a-dozen panties, one small and one medium.

She had to pass through the children's section on her way to the front, and it occurred to her that the boy would probably be in the hospital for a few days, and it wouldn't hurt to bring him some pyjamas either. She had to consult the sales clerk about the size, but settled on a pair covered in space ships. Luke had liked space ships when he was about Stevie's age. She remembered watching the Apollo 20 moon landing with him at the tail end of his obsession. When it occurred to her abruptly that that had been Al's mission, five years ago to the day, the question was settled.

Forty dollars poorer but filled with the smug happiness that spending money always gave her, Sharon hurried back to the parking lot. It was only quarter after seven, and anyway, everybody knew you could always charm a few more minutes' visiting time out of harried hospital staff.

Not until she reached the hospital did Sharon remember Al's mandate about supper, so she went to the cafeteria for a Styrofoam bowl of vegetable soup and a couple of dinner rolls. Now heavy-laden with offerings of all sorts, she made her way up to Pediatrics.

The woman at the nurses' station directed her to a private room (odd, because she didn't think Celestina was in any position to afford a private room…) where Esteban lay fast asleep in a whimsically dressed bed. Sharon knocked lightly on the open door, and Celestina turned expectantly.

A brief frown was replaced by a smile. "Senora Calavicci!" she whispered, getting to her feet. "Your husband, he said he would come with things."

"I came instead," Sharon said, coming into the room and setting her burdens on the wheeled table near the wall. She approached the bed. "How is he?"

"Well. The doctors say that he is well," Celestina said, her voice strained with joy and nervous relief. "He sleeps now."

"I see that," Sharon said, returning to her purchases. "I brought you some supper," she said. "And I picked up the things Al said, but there are some presents in the other bags."

Celestina frowned. "Presents?" she said.

"Gifts," Sharon repeated. "Merry Christmas."

Still puzzled, Celestina opened the bag from Sears. She drew out the pyjamas first, smiling in delight. "To wear to school?" she asked, nodding at Esteban.

Sharon laughed. "No! They're pyjamas! To wear at the hospital, and in bed."

"Oh!" Celestina said. "But they are so handsome."

"Don't let him wear them to school!" Sharon instructed firmly. "The other kids will laugh."

Celestina's face fell. "They already laugh," she said in a fragile whisper. "My poor baby."

Impulsively, Sharon gripped the other woman's arm. "I'm sorry," she said.

Celestina smiled. "But Senor Calavicci is his friend, and Chester. Now he is not so lonely." She reached into the bag again and drew out the nightgown. She stared at it. "No, no," she said. "I do not need it. No. I wear my old one. Already Senor Calavicci has done too much."

"It's not from Senor Calavicci: it's from me," Sharon said firmly. "And you can't wear your old one around the hospital: it's got more love and luck holding it together than anything."

Celestina was staring at the slippers and the underwear now, too. "It is too much," she repeated.

"No, it's Christmas!" Sharon said. "You give your friends presents at Christmas!"

Celestina looked at her desolately. "But for you I have no present," she said.

Sharon laughed. "Tell you what," she said. "When Esteban's all better you can make me up another batch of those churros things, and that can be my present. Better yet, maybe you can teach me how to make them. But I gotta warn you, I'm not much of a cook."

An enormous smile spread across Celestina's face. "Sí," she said. "Sí, yes, that I can do! I teach you to make churros. It is very easy: anyone can learn it!"

She exclaimed over the toothbrushes and toothpaste, too, with such enthusiasm that Sharon was almost embarrassed. It was mind-boggling that such everyday things could be hailed like costly luxuries. Then she sat by the sleeping boy while his mother ate, and by that time visiting hours were over. Sharon took her leave, but not before Celestina lavished more thanks on her and on Al.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

It was twenty after eight when Sharon got home, and Al was in the shower. She could hear soft grunts of pleasure or pain under the roar of the water. She bent to pat Chester's head, where he lay with his nose under the door, then went back to the kitchen and dug out a can of soup.

By the time Al emerged, wearing only pyjama pants and rubbing his hair vigorously with a towel, she had supper on the table: soup, cheese, salami and hot buttered toast. Al went to the liquor cabinet and poured a glass of whiskey.

"Supper's ready," Sharon said.

" 'M not hungry," Al said.

"When did you last eat?" Sharon challenged.

"Lunch. Late lunch. Three o'clock," Al said. "I had lasagne."

"Well, it's almost nine, and I think you should eat," Sharon informed him firmly.

Al knocked back half the whiskey and shook his head. "I'm not hungry."

"Well, at least sit down and keep me company," Sharon said. Al shrugged and sat. "I picked up some pyjamas for Celestina and Esteban," she told him. "Her stuff is really disgraceful."

"That was good of you," Al said flatly. His eyelids hung leadenly at half-mast. Sharon heard a gurgling noise that brought a frown to her lips.

"What did you have for lunch again?" she asked conversationally.

"Turkey sandwich," Al mumbled, sipping at his whiskey.

"I knew it! You didn't eat!" Sharon exclaimed, filling a bowl with soup. "Here. Cream of mushroom. I made it just for you."

Al stared dumbly at the soup and dragged his spoon through it. "You made this?" he asked.

"Scooped it out of the can and added a cup of milk all by myself!" Sharon said proudly.

Al blinked, looking more and more like a half-conscious calf. "My second wife," he said. "She used to make this potato soup, right from scratch. Best potato soup I ever had."

"You want a helpmeet or you want an appetizer chef?" Sharon asked. "Now eat some toast."

Al shook his head and took a spoonful of the soup. "Don't need toast."

"Yes you do," contradicted Sharon, ripping a piece in half and forcing it into his other hand. "Eat it!" He didn't obey. "_Eat it!_"

He lifted the bread to his lips and chewed methodically, letting it drop to the table.

Sharon replaced it with a piece of salami. "Try that," she ordered. "Now more soup."

In this way she managed to get Al through a halfway decent meal. By the time his bowl was empty, though, he was almost unconscious where he sat, so Sharon helped him to his feet and led him to the bedroom. He fell heavily onto the mattress. She was tempted to climb right in and join him, but then it occurred to her that it drove him crazy when she left the house a mess.

Tucking him carefully in and smoothing his curls, she went back into the kitchen and started on the dishes.


	22. Chapter TwentyOne

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

On Christmas Eve there were few people present on the Starbright premises. Only a handful, the most solitary of a naturally secretive bunch, remained. They were the ones without family, without friends to turn to in the holiday season. Without even the desire to drive into town and see a movie. These were the disillusioned, the lonely, the embittered, and the pathologically dedicated. The kind of people who, tonight of all nights, were especially vulnerable to the charms of a charismatic young Human Resources specialist. Through the day Dan Penvenen had worked his H.R. magic on every member of the staff still on site, but one. It was that one he sought now as he made his way down towards the chem labs, but his mind was not on her or on the search. He was thinking about Captain Albert Calavicci.

He didn't understand what Congressman Davies had against the Project Administrator. As far as Dan could see, they were remarkably similar, considering that one was a half-Italian street urchin from the seediest part of New York City, and the other the scion of a wealthy family of old Southern blood. Both were glaringly informal and dazzlingly charismatic. They shared the same basically hedonistic approach to life. Both were dirty-minded middle-aged stagnants, too fond of wine and women, their days as valiant Naval fliers forgotten by all but themselves and whatever unfortunate officer in the Quartermaster's department had to keep them supplied with fresh-looking chest adornments. They had both done time in Vietnam and both (Dan prided himself on having noticed) wore white bracelets of scar tissue around each wrist. Indeed, the only difference that he could see was Calavicci's string of failed marriages, and the fact that, as far as he could tell, the captain had not cheated on his wife, the glitzy but aging painter who had successfully railroaded the Christmas party. Davies had been married to the same woman for thirty years, and to the best of Dan's knowledge, slept with her only under extreme duress, when there was absolutely no cocktail waitress, floozy, bimbo or prostitute to be found.

Yet despite their similar outlook on life and the shared suffering of the war, Davies hated Calavicci. It wasn't something he had exactly kept secret. He hadn't broadcast it, either, but one of Dan Penvenen's greatest assets was his ability to read people's feeling to such a degree that explicit instructions were unnecessary. Nevertheless, he didn't see what problem his lecherous, pleasure-loving contact had with this lecherous, pleasure-loving officer.

His own problems with Calavicci were far more self-evident… as were Doctor Eleese's.

To Dan's surprise she was in the lab, bent low over a distillation apparatus, her dark curls heaped haphazardly on her head. She was a stunningly beautiful woman, he reflected dispassionately. More appealing than her beauty, however, was her grave demeanor and her refusal to tolerate the sort of nonsense that seemed endemic wherever Calavicci passed.

"Doctor?" Dan said, waiting circumspectly for permission to come further into her workspace.

She raised her head. "Who are you?"

"Dan Penvenen, Human Resources," he said. "I'm sorry to interrupt your work…"

"It's not work; I'm just playing around," Eleese demurred. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm concerned about recent relations between the scientists—the heart of Starbright, as it were—and the administrative staff. I was wondering what your thoughts were on the matter."

Eleese cocked her head to one side. "The administrative staff is tolerable. I've found Prysock to be most helpful since his promotion."

"And Calavicci?" Penvenen asked.

Her eyes took on a guarded look. "Everyone loves Calavicci, now don't they?"

Penvenen affected mild surprise. "_Do_ they?" he said. Then he met her frown with a warm smile. "May I have a seat?" he asked, indicating one of the stools at her workbench.

MWMWMWMWMWMMWWMMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

Al knew that he wasn't in Vietnam because he couldn't smell the jungle. Because he could feel the pain, though, he knew he wasn't free. The pain… this agony that was at once dull and stabbing, bone-deep smoldering and fire on the surface. His arms, heavy as the iron bars they would hobble you with, yet not numb. Wrapped in anguish, each muscle protesting. His back and his neck, tormented and twisted, distracted him not at all from the anguish in his shoulders. His shoulders. The left one was out of its socket again. Al wondered frantically if they would ever be normal…

The joint ground against the adjacent bones, and Al awoke with a gasp of pain, his body scissoring involuntarily as he sat up, right hand moving spastically to clutch his shoulder, trying to arrest the convulsion tearing through it. Coming as it did from the depths of slumber, the agony caught him with his guard at its lowest, and he couldn't suppress the sobbing gasp that articulated his suffering.

A second later, Sharon was awake. "What's wrong?" she exclaimed. "Al! Al!"

He tried to answer, to tell her that he was okay, but the spasm continued and his legs twitched against the mattress, kicking in desperation as he tried to wake up enough to control the pain. Another arrow of agony shot into the joint and he choked on the scream.

Sharon seized him just above the elbows. "What's wrong? What's wrong?" she exclaimed.

"Nothing, nothing," Al wheezed through grinding teeth. His fingers worked, massaging the shoulder and struggling to force the pain into it and away. Sharon tried to stroke his face, but he jerked away, desperate to control, or at least to hide, his distress. His chest heaved and shuddered. He locked his jaw over the sounds of anguish.

At last it was over. The piercing darts of torment were gone, replaced by a terrible, penetrating ache. Even the tiniest motion threatened to bring back the spasms, but if he stayed still, very, very still, it wasn't so bad.

"Baby, are you okay?" Sharon whispered, smoothing his cheek. "Al? Honey?"

"Fine," he gasped. "Just fine."

She flicked on the light and he was momentarily blinded. Then a hand touched his tortured joint and he jerked back with a sharp exclamation.

"Don't!" he growled.

"But Al—"

"I said don't!" he snapped, getting out of bed and stumbling to the door. He whacked himself on the post, and cried out. Ashamed of his lack of control, he fled to the kitchen. Lights weren't necessary for what he was doing, though the effort of holding the bottle still with his left hand almost brought tears to his eyes. The first jolt of whiskey calmed him, however, and his mind started to come back into its own, compartmentalizing and denying and finally minimizing the pain. Finally he worked up the courage to prod his shoulder, feeling to reassure himself that everything was in the right place.

There was a sound of bare feet on the old carpet, and Sharon came into the room, hugging her bathrobe to her body. "Al?" she whispered. "Was it another nightmare?"

Al flinched at her words, and took another mouthful of whiskey. "No. Muscle spasms, that's all."

She came up behind him and tried to massage some of the tension out of his back. Al shrugged her off. "I said it's nothing," he told her harshly.

"Al, would you please—"

"I said it's nothing," he snarled. "My arms are just sore from toting Stevie around. Now leave me alone."

He shuffled past her and into the living room, picking up the afghan from the sofa and wrapping himself in it. He sat down in his armchair, tucking his feet under his body and hugging the blanket close. Sharon came near in the gloom and tried to pet his hair, but he tossed his head to shake her off.

"Al, if you're hurt—"

"I'm not hurt! Go back to bed!" Al snapped.

Sharon stood still for a moment, peering at him. Then she sighed and shook her head in disgust. "Fine," she said. "If you want to sit here and feel sorry for yourself, go ahead. _If_, on the other hand, you want some _holiday cheer_… I'll be in bed."

She strode away, and a moment later the light went out. Al sat in the dark, shivering and grinding his teeth against the persistent ache in his shoulder. Presently, he heard the jingle of collar tabs, and the padding of tiny feet. He patted his knee with his right hand. Chester sprung first onto the chair, and then onto Al's legs, trotting forward and nestling within the cocoon of the blanket. With the warm weight of the furry body on his chest, the rough tongue lapping fondly at his arm, and the afghan around him to limit his universe, Al soon drifted off to sleep, curled in the chair like a child awaiting Christmas morning.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

Al awoke to the sunlight and the unpleasant memory of yesterday. Stevie was in the hospital after an appendectomy. His arms ached, left shoulder worst of all. He had to get up to the hospital and see how Celestina was holding up.

Sharon was asleep, his pillow hugged to her abdomen. Al gathered up some clothes from the closet, and then went to shower. Neatly clad and clean-shaven, he admired his reflection and noted with some smugness that they weren't going to take him for a charity case today!

He fed Chester, who had been stiffing at the all-but-forgotten presents under the little tree that Al had insisted on procuring and decorating. Sharon thought two adults ought to be past such juvenile rituals, but for Al, who had never had a proper Christmas as a child (and for that matter few enough as an adult), a tree was an important part of the ambiance. Besides, Chester liked it.

Having taken care of the dog, Al helped himself to a little liquid courage to ease the trembling in his hands, and left the trailer. Noting with annoyance that Sharon had neglected to cover the Corvette, he got into the car and started down the street. At the turn he braked, navigating instead towards the Penjas' trailer.

An ancient station wagon was parked on the curb in front of it, and the door to the trailer hung wide. Al got out of his own vehicle, livid with indignation. Squatters? After one damned night?

The protective instinct overrode common sense, and he made no pretense of caution as he strode up the walk and into the trailer. As he did so, the man bending over Celestina's hot plate whirled, instantly on the defensive. Al, startled by the sudden motion, raised his fists into a fighting stance.

It didn't come to blows, which was fortunate, because Golden Gloves regional championship title aside, Al was twenty-five years older, nine inches shorter, and at least a hundred pounds lighter than the mass of humanity he was faced with. Broad, sinewy shoulders occupied a grimy T-shirt, strong, well-muscled arms raised in preparation for combat. The man's skin was deeply tanned, and his dark eyes were almost black. His hair was dark and curling, and he wore it long, bound back in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. There was something about the hair or the shape of his eyebrows that reminded Al instantly of Stevie. He relaxed marginally as he realized who this must be.

"You're Celestina's brother-in-law!" he said, still keeping his fists at the ready, just in case.

"And who are you?" the man demanded. His English was much better than Celestina's, though there was something ineffably Mexican about his cadence and his attitude.

"Al Calavicci. I'm a neighbor."

The man paused, scrutinizing Al dubiously. "_You're_ Calavicci?" he said. "Celestina said you were some kind of… well…"

"Some kind of what?" Al challenged. While they stood like this, both prepared at a moment's notice to try to tear one another's heads off, there was a feeling to the encounter that necessitated wariness.

"Some kind of big hero. Not a goofy little guy in red pants."

Al glanced down at his clothing and scowled. "And she didn't tell me you were a human gorilla, either," he retorted. "What's your name, anyway, and why are you in the house?"

"I'm Juan Penja, and I'm in the house because I always spend Christmas with Celestina and Esteban. They weren't here, so I just came in. The lock's been broken for a year and a half, you know."

Al lowered his fists and stood at ease. "I know," he said. But nobody else did.

"So where are they?" Juan demanded.

Al scratched the back of his neck. "Stevie had his appendix removed yesterday. They're up at the hospital."

"Hospital? Who's paying for that?" cried the young Mexican.

"Me," Al said. "Why? That a problem?"

"I don't know: you a loan shark?" Juan retorted fiercely.

Al laughed. "No. I'm a captain in the Navy and I happen to be really fond of your nephew, that's all."

Juan's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Oh, yeah?" he said.

Al nodded. "Well, yeah," he answered.

Suddenly Juan had one mighty hand clamped around each of Al's arms below the shoulder and was lifting him onto his toes. Only the whiskey ballast in his stomach and years of practice hiding his pain kept Al from crying out at the agony this caused in his shoulder.

"You some kind of pervert?" Juan rumbled. "You doin' things to Esteban?"

Al felt a sudden wave of nausea. "What?" he gasped.

" 'Cause I know he's a little retarded, and his mama don't speak English so great, but I'm not stupid, man, and if I find out you've been doing stuff to my brother's son, I'll kill you. Understand me?"

Juan released Al abruptly and he stumbled back against the shelf-bed, unable to keep from clutching his left shoulder as he fought the gorge rising in his throat. He couldn't even rouse himself to anger. The intimation that he would do anything to hurt Stevie, that he would do any such unthinkable thing to any child filled him with a crippling shame.

"I wouldn't hurt Stevie," he whispered, tears prickling in his eyes and heightening the sense of mortification that was sweeping over him. "I would never hurt him."

Juan frowned. "Hey, hang on…" he started.

The tone of standoffish apology woke the rage that Al had been unable to feel a moment ago. He sprung to his feet and surged forward to grab the front of the bigger man's shirt. "You listen to me, you nozzle," he said, choler overriding all inhibitions. "I had a sister like Stevie. I'd never hurt him or anybody like him. Celestina's having a hard time making it on her own, and I'm trying to help. How's the kid supposed to learn how to talk properly if he hasn't got someone to teach him? Who's going to keep the bullies away? I'm trying to help, and I don't appreciate you implying that I'm molesting him! I would never—God! I would _never_…"

His knees began to shake, and he released his hold. He raised a trembling hand to his forehead, as if he could force back the thoughts of anyone doing… doing _that_ to Stevie.

"Hey, man, I didn't mean to upset you," Juan said. "I just… he's my brother's kid, you know? I promised Carlos I'd look out for him when I could, and I don't get much chance or anything, but, you know, I try." He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and brought out a stainless steel flash. He held it out to Al. "Friends?" he asked.

Imprudently, Al uncapped the flask and knocked back a good long swallow of the contents. Gin. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then gave the flask back to its owner, who also quaffed from it.

"So, listen," he said; "you want to tell me what ward they're on or something, so I can visit?"

Al let a guarded smile creep over his face. "Sure," he said. "You had breakfast?"

Juan shook his head. "Naw," he said. "I was trying to fix somethin', but it looks like maybe Celestina forgot to get the Christmas groceries."

MWWMMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

Sharon awoke to the unexpected smell of omelet à la Calavicci. She would have expected Al to go charging off to the hospital first thing. She got out of bed, wrapping herself in her robe, and shuffled into the kitchen. Al was at the stove, busy with the frying pan. At the table, feeding bits of toast crust to Chester, was a muscular young man with long, dark hair. Sharon stared.

"What's this?" she asked.

Al turned from the stove, smiling broadly. "Sharon, this is Juan Penja, Stevie's uncle. Juan, my wife Sharon." He skillfully tipped the contents of the pan onto a plate and set it in front of the unexpected guest with a flourish. The other omelet, waiting on the counter, he gave to Sharon, then kissed her quickly. "I've got to get going," he said. "When you two are done eating come up to the hospital, okay?"

"O-okay," Sharon said, a bit taken aback. He was leaving her alone with a complete stranger?

"That's my girl," Al said, patting her on one buttock. He bent and gave Chester a quick pat on the head, then clapped Juan on the shoulder. "You take good care of my wife, okay?"

"Sure, Al," the man said. "You tell Celestina I'm coming, okay?"

Al nodded and hurried from the house. A moment later the Corvette peeled away.

Sharon put her hands on her hips. "I'll bet he didn't eat, did he?" she said.

"I dunno. Before he left the first time, probably," Juan said, methodically demolishing the omelet. "Pleased to meet you, by the way."

"Oh… yeah… pleased to meet you," Sharon said, closing her robe more tightly around her body and taking a seat uneasily. "So… uh… you're Esteban's uncle?"

"The one and only."

"You… live in Mexico?"

Juan shook his head. "I live in my wagon," he said. "Go where there's work. You know construction."

"Oh. You're a builder," Sharon said awkwardly.

"Bricklayer," Juan informed her. "Best in the business." He poured himself another glass of milk. "Listen, I kind of said some stuff to your husband that I didn't really think about. I hope he understands I'm just looking out for the kid, you know?'

"I'm sure he does," said Sharon, a nervous smile twitching on his lips.

"Celestina thinks he's a great guy," Juan added.

"Oh," said Sharon. "Good."

"I thought maybe he was, you know, fooling around with her and Stevie. But now I see that he can't be."

"Why is that?" Sharon asked.

" 'Cause with a babe like you at home, why would he need to go elsewhere, huh?" he said.

Sharon flushed with pleasure, smoothing her uncombed hair.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

Stevie was awake when Al arrived, propped up on pillows and watching his mother's face listlessly as she stroked his hair and petted his hands. Al entered the room quietly, and approached the bed.

"Hey, sport," he said. "Merry Christmas!"

Stevie turned and his wan face lit up in a radiant smile. "Mithta Al! Mithta Al!" he exclaimed, then whimpered a little as he tried to sit himself further up. Al was at his side in an instant.

"Hey, buddy, you gotta take it easy," he said, rubbing Stevie's arm to distract him from the pain in his abdomen. "You've got some healing to do before you can start charging around like a cannonball." He turned to Celestina. "How's he doing?"

She smiled. "The doctors tell me he is well," she said. "The kind nurse changed the bandage, did she not, Esteban?"

Stevie nodded. "Leetha," he said. "I like Leetha."

"How 'bout that!" Al said, pulling up a chair and sitting next to the bed. "I knew a nurse named Lisa once, too.

"I eated my porridge," Stevie said proudly. "Not all of it: my tummy hurt-th."

"I know, buddy. It'll probably be sore for a while," Al sympathized. "Stevie, what do you know!" he said. "They've got a playroom up the hall, with toys and books and stuff, and I borrowed some stories for us to read while Mama goes to have her breakfast and lie down for a little while."

"Thtory!" Stevie exclaimed.

Al turned to Celestina. "You go ahead, honey," he said. "Juan's at our house. He and Sharon are going to come up in a while."

Celestina's eyes widened. "Juan! I forgot! Oh—"

Al caught her gesticulating hands. "It's okay; it's fine. He's at our place having breakfast right now. You go downstairs and get yourself something to eat. I'll stay here with Stevie." He pressed a ten-dollar bill into her hand. She tried to protest, but he shook his head. "Go and get some breakfast," he said firmly. "I'll take care of Stevie."

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

By noon all four adults were assembled in Stevie's room. Al was reading animatedly to the child, who was leaning happily in his uncle's arms. Celestina sat in the corner, weeping quietly over the letters from her husband. Sharon stood alone on the fringe of the room, observing in silence.

At two o'clock a physician came in and asked to speak to the boy's representative. Al passed the book he was busy with to Sharon, and went out into the corridor with the doctor.

"Are you Mr. Penja?" the man asked.

Al shook his head. "Captain Calavicci. Mr. Penja is out of the country. I'm taking care of Celestina and Stevie."

"Doctor Smithfield, Captain. Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise. What's this about?"

"Well, Esteban's surgery proceeded normally, and the incision is already healing," Smithfield began. Then his voice trailed off and he swallowed hard. Al's heart began to beat harder.

"The doctor we talked to yesterday said they were running some blood tests. Is that what you need to talk about?" Al asked uneasily.

Smithfield pursed his lips briefly and nodded. "There are some… unusual features," he said. "We would like to keep Esteban on antibiotics for a couple more days. Doctor Ananda will be back on the twenty-ninth. She's one of our foremost pediatricians, and she has a lot of clinical experience with Down's Syndrome children. She'll be able to check for any special complications of the surgery. I wouldn't be surprised if Esteban was discharged and back home by New Year's."

"So what's the problem?" Al said.

"Nothing, Captain. Nothing at all," Smithfield said, examining the chart in his hand with care. "I understand that you are standing as surety for the bill?"

"That's right," Al confirmed, eyeing him suspiciously. "Is there a problem with that?"

"Certainly not. It's a credit to the United States military that you're going out of your way for the boy. I understand he's no relation?"

"That's right. He's just my neighbor."

"That's extraordinarily generous," the physician observed.

"That's me: Mister Altruistic. Is there a point here?" asked Al.

"To be frank, Captain, we'd like to do a bone marrow scan, if—"

"If I'm willing to foot the bill," Al finished. "Of course I am. Go ahead and do it: I promise I'm good for the money. But why do you want to do a bone marrow scan?"

Smithfield shrugged. "Just to cover all of our bases, see if we can explain some of the anomalies in the blood tests. It's probably nothing to worry about."

"Probably?" Al said.

"Captain, really. Nothing's absolutely certain. Let's just be thankful that Esteban's surgery went so well. We'll see about booking him for a scan in a couple of days. Now, there's a little paperwork that will need to be done with regards to billing…"

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMMWMWMWMWWMMWWMM 

After a good twenty minutes of filling out forms and signing his soul away, Al was able to return to the room. Stevie was asleep under his uncle's watchful eye. There was no sign of Celestina and Sharon.

"Where're the girls?" Al whispered.

"Your wife took Celestina to the parents' room to shower and catch some sleep," Juan answered. "You're both so good. I'm sorry about what I said before."

Al smiled and shrugged. "Forget it," he said. "I'm glad to know they've got someone looking out for them like that." He touched Stevie's round little cheek. "It's a hard world. Kids need all the help they can get."

Juan chuckled. "You sound like you know what you're talking about," he said. "Most of you rich Americans don't know nothin'."

"I wasn't always well off," Al said. "Spent half my childhood on the streets and the other half in a New York orphanage. But there were people who made a real difference in my life, so here I am. Captain in the Navy, beautiful wife, best little friend a man could have." He nodded at the boy.

"You've certainly got a beautiful wife," Juan said.

Al snickered a little. "Hands off, mister. Sharon's mine!" He sat down. "I'll bet you've got yourself a cute little _Chiquita _back home in Mexico, huh?"

Juan smiled smugly. "One or two," he said. "Or six."

"Man after my own heart," Al joked. They both laughed quietly, mindful of the sleeping child.


	23. Chapter TwentyTwo

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Visiting hours didn't last long enough for Al's taste, and far too soon he and Sharon were banished from the hospital. After producing a California driver's license Juan was allowed to stay, probably because the hospital staff assumed he was Stevie's father. It irked Al that he wasn't the one sitting a vigil at the child's side, but he was nonetheless grateful that Celestina had someone to fall back on.

He drove home in a silence that Sharon didn't even try to break. The high-rises gave way to suburbia, then to slums, and from there to the industrial fringes and decaying commercial strips. At last the mobile homes—Hooverville, as Sharon so cynically called the area—moved in around them. Weary and sore and inexplicably lonely, Al found the drab neighborhood disheartening.

To his surprise, Sharon helped him lift the tarp over the car. He was grateful for her aid, because his shoulder was once again throbbing dully. Finally, he trudged up the cinderblock steps and into the trailer, his wife behind him.

"You wanna fix supper, or shall I?" Sharon asked.

"You do what you like: I'm not hungry," Al said.

"I don't care if you're hungry: you have to eat your Christmas dinner."

Al groaned. "I forgot about Christmas!"

"Yeah, well, you've been busy," Sharon pointed out, opening the cupboard they used as a pantry. "Let's see… you want tomato soup, instant oriental noodles, or just-add-water potato flakes?"

Al shuddered. "What is this, _Space: 1999_? Get out of my kitchen, woman: you're a menace!"

"As if you can do better!" Sharon taunted, dancing out of his way as he swatted at her.

"I could do better with both hands tied behind my back!" Al said, digging out the flour and a stick of butter. "Make yourself useful and plug in the tree. I'll fix you a Christmas dinner you're not gonna forget!"

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

"You're right," Sharon said slurredly, pouring herself yet another glass of wine. They were on their third bottle. "I won't be forgetting this in a hurry."

Al gave her a sloppy kiss and tossed a piece of biscuit at Chester. He had whipped up a batch in the oven and served them with bacon fried almost too long, the kind that melted in your mouth. He had done a quick olive-oil stir-fry: peppers and celery and thin slivers of potato. A flaming fruit salad had rounded out the meal, which they had eaten, picnic-style, under the Christmas tree.

"Extemporaneous cooking's an art, baby," he said, mooching shamelessly from her glass. "And one, by the way, that people who buy just-add-water potato flakes will never understand."

Sharon giggled drunkenly. "But you used up the brandy!" she protested.

"I did," Al said thickly. "No wife of wine—no mife of mine is gonna eat brandy like an old Virginian grandmother."

"I'll eat what I—drink what I want and you can't stop me!" Sharon exclaimed, knocking back the rest of her wine as if to prove it. "Sharon shall ship six sherries some Sunday!"

Al chuckled and let himself fall backwards into a supine position. "Say that five times fast!" he challenged.

"Thatthatthatthatthat!" Sharon gibbered. She giggled again. "Wine's gone," she said mournfully, then she laughed. "Sorry you burnt the brandy?"

"Brandy's for burning, stunts are for learning, girls are for kissing, tequila's for—"

Sharon clamped a hand over his mouth. "Shh," she hissed. "Shh, no dirty rhymes in front of Baby."

"Baby?" Al grunted.

"Widdel baby bumpkin, Mommy's bitty-widdy Chessie-poo," Sharon gushed, reaching out and picking up Chester, who had been licking the empty dishes. She nuzzled his face as she continued in her undeniably yucky baby voice. "Mommy's widdel oopsie! Fuzzy-wuzzy Chester-wester. Daddy shuddunt talk wike dat when Chessie can hear, should he, my widdel fuwwy baby boy?"

Al wagged a finger in her face. "I'm not 'is daddy," he said. "You can't blame him on me!"

"Sure you are his daddy, iddent he, widdel Chessie? Iddent dat your daddy?"

Chester snorted a little, licking his lips. Sharon set him down and patted his head. Al chuckled. "Never spent the night with a bitch in my life," he said, inebriation overriding his inhibitions. "Whole lotta ladies, one angel—my angel!—a coupla women, more girls'n any kid in that orphanage, no bitches. Knew a bitch once. Black-eyed bitch. _She_ knew how to use a whip! Saw her kill a crow once without scaring the one sittin' next to it. Bitch. She could use a whip…"

Al heard his words and they horrified him. He knew he had to be wasted to be spilling such secrets, but the fact that the thoughts were there at all meant that he wasn't wasted enough. He pinched Sharon's side fondly.

"You get the bourbon, we'll play a game," he proposed.

Sharon grinned eagerly. "Game?" she laughed excessively. "Yes! Let's play a game!"

She tried to get up, but Al caught her by the wrist, pulling her down on top of him. He kissed her several times in rapid succession before releasing her. "Now go get that bourbon!" he cried.

She giggled and scampered off into the kitchen. Al tilted his head back and reached under the sofa, drawing out an oblong box.

There were some rather alarming bangs and crashes from the kitchen as he set up the board, but he was feeling less pain by the second and didn't really give a damn. Finally Sharon came back, tottering unsteadily. When she saw what Al had set out, she let out a whoop of disgusted disbelief.

"Scrabble?" she squealed, dropping down next to him. "You want to play _Scrabble_?"

"Yeah, I do," Al said, taking the bottle from her and helping himself. "You'll like it."

"I do like it, but I play it with Dad on Sunday afternoons," she said, flopping down onto the floor. "It's not exactly erotic."

"It is the way _I_ play it," Al promised, holding out the bag of tiles. "Ladies first," he said generously.

Rolling his eyes, Sharon pulled seven tiles from the bag and set them on her rack. Al drew his while she sorted. Sharon rolled her eyes and set down her first word. "J-E-R-K," she said. "Are you keeping score, or am I?"

Al shook his head. "We don't need to keep score," he said, carefully removing his left shoe.

"Oh, this is _thrilling_," Sharon groaned, dripping sarcasm. "We're tipsy, we're playing Scrabble, and we're not even keeping sc—"

"One syllable," Al said, holding up the shoe before tossing it pointedly away.

"Oh, you're _bad_!" Sharon squeaked, writhing with anticipatory pleasure. "You're _evil_! Your turn! Your turn!"

Al grinned wickedly. "W-H-A-L-E-R," he said, fishing out fresh tiles. Sharon artfully removed her earrings.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWMWMWM 

Three turns a piece later, the bourbon was gone and the tile placement was getting very, very sloppy, but neither player cared. Things were getting interesting. Sharon had a more accessorized ensemble, but Al's vocabulary suffered less under the influence of alcohol. He smirked triumphantly as he laid out his next word. Sharon's "ACTOR", which had cost him his belt and his undershirt, was quickly embellished with "O", "L", "F" and "Y".

"Olfactory," he said. "On a triple word score. That's twelve."

"I can count," Sharon said seductively. "But who'll pick up my deficit? I haven't got twelve pieces left."

She sure didn't, Al thought, eyeing the lacy edge of her brassiere where it spilled its powder-blue line across the soft whiteness of her bosom. "I hear that Captain Calavicci's a generous guy," he mumbled, chewing his lower lip as she began to unbutton her jeans.

An enormously loud hiccough tore the air, dispersing the ambience. Al and Sharon exchanged confused glances. Neither of them had made the sound.

Another hiccough rang out, followed by a little yelp as Chester came walking towards them, weaving wildly. His little legs trembled and his forepaws crossed, then bounced back.

"What the hell…" Al began.

Chester hiccoughed again, stumbling to the left, his tail whipping madly. There was something about his gait…

Sharon saw it first, and her eyes grew enormous. "The brandy on the dishes!" she exclaimed. "He's drunk!"

Al blanched, looking at the dog in dismay. "Oh, God," he gasped.

Chester's tail began to thump more lazily as he looked from one face to the other. His ears weren't as perky as usual, and his neck seemed unusually loose. He licked Al's bare arm awkwardly. Then he took one more step forward, wobbled, and fell down, right in the middle of the Scrabble board, sending tiles flying in every direction. Al stared in horror. Then an inebriated snore emerged from the dog's throat.

Sharon began to giggle, a thin nasal wheeze that bubbled over into a riotous belly laugh. A glance at Al's dismayed expression worsened the fit. She clutched at her side and rolled on the rug. Al looked at her in consternation. Then another hiccough shook Chester's furry little body, followed closely by another snore, and Al's face cracked into an enormous smile as he, too, fell laughing onto the ground.

At last, breathless and sore, they subsisted into silence. Al picked himself up first, returning to a seated position. Wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, Sharon followed suit. They stared at each other, seized by a drunken gravity more powerful than the laughter. After a minute of absolute silence, Al spoke, slowly and clearly, enunciating each word with exquisite care.

"Olfactory," he said. "Triple word score."


	24. Chapter TwentyThree

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Chester let out a piteous whine. Al extended the fingers of the hand that held him to rub the ruff of fur around his neck. The other hand petted his head.

"Yeah, I know, buddy," he said, his voice low and rusty. He set Chester down on the kitchen cupboard. The terrier put his head on his paws and resumed his quiet crying.

"This'll teach you to lick the dishes!" Al scolded fondly. "It's all your own fault, you know."

But the soft dark eyes held none of the wry acceptance Al saw as the lot of every party animal. All that they communicated was that Chester didn't feel good. In fact, he felt dreadful, and he couldn't understand why. All he understood was that he felt sick and that somehow, surely, Master would take the hurt away.

Only Master didn't know what to do for his own hangover, much less Chester's. Al sighed, clutching his thrumming temple as he routed out the whiskey and poured a glassful. His hand trembled and he spilled, grabbing the dishrag from the sink to wipe up the fluid. With a single quick motion he drained the glass, then cupped one hand around his forehead and drew a couple of deep breaths.

Chester's pink tongue licked at his black nose and he whimpered again. Al smiled a little, sympathetic. He got out a cereal bowl and filled it with water, setting it close to Chester's head. The terrier sat up and began to lap at it, almost frantically. "Easy does it, fella," Al said. "You'll make yourself sick."

Chester ignored the warning, continuing obliviously. Al stroked his back as he dug around for the aspirin with his other hand. Frowning at the lack of success, he turned his eyes on the drawer. The little white vial was gone.

Abruptly he remembered that he had taken it with him to Celestina's the other night. That brought thoughts of the hospital, and the inevitable weight of responsibility fell upon his shoulders again. All very well to have a night of wine and passion with a beautiful woman, but what about Stevie? Al realized that, hangover or no hangover, it was his duty to head up there and see what else could be done for the boy and his mother. Refilling Chester's bowl, he made a beeline for the shower.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

When he emerged, Sharon was on the sofa, swathed in the afghan with Chester asleep against her shoulder, looking actually uncannily like a very, very furry baby with an absolutely enormous nose. She smiled wanly at Al.

"I'm going to the hospital," he said.

She nodded. "We forgot to exchange gifts last night."

Al chuckled a little. "You distracted me," he told her. "I had every intention of giving you your presents, but you had to go threatening me with your cooking. I got sidetracked."

"You think you can hold off for half an hour?" Sharon asked.

He shook his head. "It wouldn't be half an hour," he said. "Soon's you open your gifts we'll want to try them out. Tonight, okay, babe?"

Sharon put on a pouting face. "Okay," she said sulkily. Then she worked one finger in the corner of her eye. "I called Debbie to say we weren't coming."

"Shit!" Al had completely forgotten about the intended Boxing Day pilgrimage to Phoenix. "Look, I'm sorry…"

"Forget it," Sharon said. "The kids won't care."

"What about your father?" Al asked, chaffing his hand against his forehead.

"Probably won't even notice," Sharon said softly.

"What about you?"

She shrugged and smiled. "With this headache, the last thing I want to do is spend an afternoon with Rich."

"Sisterly love: nothing like it," Al commented. "All right. I'll be home at eight. I'll make dinner and we'll exchange presents, okay?"

"Okay," Sharon said. "You remember to eat while you're there, promise?"

"Promise," Al said.

"I hope Esteban's feeling better."

Al nodded grimly. "Me too."

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWMWMWM_

When he got to the hospital, Stevie was in tears, clinging to his mother and shaking his head. Celestina stroked his hair and rocked him from side to side in the bed, but it was clear that she was as distressed as he was, though better at hiding it. As Al entered the room Juan bolted from his seat near the window and grabbed the front of the Naval officer's shirt.

"Where you get off tellin' these bastards they can stick needles in Esteban's leg?" he snarled, pulling Al up onto his toes and shaking him.

"What? I—"

"That doctor said you told 'em they could do it!" Juan shouted. "You say that?"

"Put him down!" Celestina cried. "Let him go! Señor Calavicci, please—Juan! Let him go!"

The human gorilla released his hold, and Al smoothed the front of his shirt. He moved quickly to the bed and into the protection of Celestina's airspace. "What's wrong?" he asked, reaching out to put a hand on Stevie's shaking shoulder.

"They say test, needle in his leg to check his bones," Celestina said. "I do not know. I do not understand."

"You get this through your head: he's not your kid, and you don't have any right to—"

Celestina shrieked something in Spanish far too quickly for Al to comprehend. Stevie whimpered and hid his face in the front of her new nightgown. She mumbled soothingly in his ear, kissing his hair, then turned plaintive eyes on Al. "Please, you explain it?" she asked.

"Explain it… yeah… yeah, if I knew what they wanted to do," Al said helplessly. "Listen, I'll go find the doctor and figure out what's going on, okay?" Celestina nodded. Al looked at Stevie. "Okay, sport?"

"Mithta Al," Stevie whimpered. "No needle. Thcare me."

Al smiled sympathetically. "I know, buddy. They scare me, too, but sometimes you need needles so you can get better."

Stevie's face lit up. "Get better?" he asked.

Al grinned and nodded. "Sure!" he said. "You'll be better in no time!"

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

The procedure in question was the bone marrow biopsy that Al had discussed with Doctor Smithfield the day before. After being coached by the nurse, Al was able to explain the process, after a fashion, to the Penjas. Stevie didn't like the idea, and Juan didn't see any reason for it, but in the end the decision fell to Celestina, and she was not about to question anything Al suggested. He felt kind of uncomfortable with that, as if he was coercing her into consenting to something that she probably wouldn't have agreed to under other circumstances. On the other hand, though, the doctors obviously thought it was important, and Al wasn't going to let Stevie get substandard care.

The procedure itself took less than half an hour, though Stevie did have to spend an hour in recovery afterwards while they made sure he wasn't bleeding excessively. When he was returned to the pediatrics ward, he and Al went down to the playroom together while Juan and Celestina ate. Stevie wasn't up to scratch yet, and after a while he fell asleep in Al's lap on the rug painted like a road, a matchbox car bearing an uncanny resemblance to Al's Corvette clutched in one chubby hand. Al tried to get to his feet with the child in his arms, but his left shoulder ground and growled warningly, and he called over one of the orderlies to help him. The man obliged without question, and soon Stevie was settled back in his room.

Al spent the rest of the day at the hospital, and it was only at eight when he was on his way home that he realized he'd ignored Sharon's orders and forgotten lunch entirely.

Sharon had "cooked" with her index finger, and Al came home to find a pizza box and a six-pack of soda on the kitchen table, apparently newly arrived. Sharon greeted him almost as eagerly as Chester did, both having apparently recovered their good health. Al answered her questions about the child truthfully, and the inquiries about his own habits with little white lies. Then they ate, and sat down in the living room to open gifts.

Sharon enthused over the perfume and doted on the bracelet. When she got to her fourth consecutive garment box, though, she gave Al a wicked look.

"You weren't supposed to buy so much for yourself," she said slyly. Al only chuckled and kissed her neck.

She had bought him a box of cigars, two silk shirts in bright colors that took the best aspects of both her style and his, and some naughty undergarments of his own. The last gift was a small silver flask.

"Daddy always carried one," Sharon said, wriggling into his lap and folding his arms around her. "Until he started to get sick."

"Are you saying I remind you of your father?" Al teased.

Sharon shrugged. "A bit," she said. "Absent-minded. Skinny."

"What would you prefer? A musk ox like that brother-in-law of Celestina's?"

Sharon reached up to tickle him under his chin. "Wouldn't hurt you to pump some iron once in a while," she informed him. "That's all I'm saying."

"Hah!" Al said. "As long as I can pick up my wife and carry her to bed, I'm as strong as I need to be!"

"You think you can pick me up and carry me to bed?" Sharon asked skeptically.

"Get off of me and I'll show you!" Al laughed, hoisting her off of his lap and climbing to his feet. He took her shoulders and kissed her, then bent and caught her knees with his right arm, supporting her back with his left. Sharon laughed effervescently as he swung her up into his arms, and clasped her hands behind his head.

Abruptly Al's arms began to shake as yet another tremor tore through his left shoulder. He dropped Sharon with a gasp of agony, clutching at the joint and screwing his eyes tightly closed against the pain. Sharon, who had managed with some maneuvering to land on her feet, bent over his contorting body, taking ahold of his chest and trying to support him through the seizure of torment.

"I'm fine!" Al wheezed, mastering his body and straightening his back. "I'm fine."

He clutched his left arm close to his chest, because the more pressure he put on his upper arm, the easier the pain in his shoulder became. He bit his lip resolutely and then forced a smile. "Okay," he said. "So I need to hit the gym."

Sharon caressed his face. "That's not the point, Al. The point is that there's something wrong with your shoulder. You've injured it or something."

The laugh wasn't distraction as much as it was undisguised reaction to the irony of that statement. He shook his head and kissed her. "Naw," he said. "I guess I'm getting to old to go carrying women around. Have to slow down a bit, huh?"

Sharon chuckled. "The day you slow down is the day I'm heading for greener pastures!" she teased. "Now, are you up to playing with some of the new toys, or do you want to head to bed early?"

"Those don't sound like mutually exclusive options to me," Al said, finding her lips with his.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

The question of his shoulder wasn't raised again that night, although Al realized midway through the proceedings that he was altering his usual style to avoid strain on the joint. The next day he had to head up to the Project: there was still the report to finish and fax off to Congress by the end of the year. He found it very difficult to concentrate, because between worrying about Stevie and reliving the previous evening's entertainment, his mind wasn't at all inclined to buckle down and work. Nevertheless, thanks in part to the occasional sniff from the flask Sharon had given him, he accomplished enough to justify knocking off and four and heading up to the hospital for a couple hours of quality time with his best little buddy.

Stevie didn't understand why Chester couldn't come to the hospital. In his mind Al and his furry companion were two parts of the same entity, and it didn't make sense that the latter couldn't visit him while the former was obviously able to. As some compensation, Al dropped by a toy store on the twenty-eighth and picked up a stuffed dog who bore a striking resemblance to a Yorkshire terrier, and was actually almost the same weight. This he gave to Stevie with the other Christmas presents. Celestina didn't want to accept her gift, protesting that she had beautiful presents from Sharon. In the end, though, Al charmed her into taking the shoes, and she put them on at once, staring at her feet in their handsome, sturdy new coverings with wonder and tears in her eyes. Al caught Sharon staring at the cracked old shoes they had replaced with horror. He suspected maybe his wife was rethinking her position in life.

On the twenty-ninth Al skipped out on Starbright, neglecting his duties to be present when Stevie saw the specialist. Doctor Ananda was tall, plump and beautiful, with long dark hair that she wore in pigtails, one above each ear. Her scrubs were covered in a Beatrix Potter print, and she had a stuffed tiger riding in her pocket. She came into the room smiling radiantly.

"Hello, Esteban!" she said. Stevie eyed her anxiously, edging nearer to Al, who was sitting on the bed where he had been reading to the child. "I'm Jess."

"Hi, Jess," Al said, holding out hi s hand. "I'm Stevie's friend Al."

"Nice to meet you," the doctor said, shaking hands. "Does everybody call you Stevie?" she asked the boy.

He shook his head. "Jutht Mithta Al," he whispered, huddling in the adult's protective arms.

"Oh. I'll call you Esteban, then," she said. "Can I sit down?"

Nervously, Stevie nodded. The physician sat down on the edge of the bed. "What a nice little dog," she said, indicating the stuffed toy in the boy's arm. "Does he have a name?"

"Chethter," he murmured. "Him a good dog."

"I'm sure he is," Ananda said. She patted her pocket. "This is Cherry. She's my tiger, and she's a good girl, too."

Stevie smiled and reached out a timid hand to pet the toy's head. "Hi, Cherry," he said.

"Hi, Esteban!" the doctor replied in a friendly falsetto. Stevie laughed and clapped his hands. "I want to be your friend," the physician continued. "Can I be your friend?"

"Yup, yup!" Stevie exclaimed, now completely at eased as he scooted away from Al and nearer the thoroughly lovable physician.

"Oh, good!" Doctor Ananda cleared her throat and continued in her own voice. "Cherry and I want to give you a little checkup, Esteban. Is that okay?"

"I gueth," he said reluctantly, twisting the edge of his pajama shirt in his hands. He was clearly sick to death of checkups.

"Just a quick one," the doctor promised. "Can I see your stitches?"

"Thtitcheth?" Stevie said.

"On your tummy," she said.

"Oh! My tummy!" He lifted his shirt and stuck out his belly. The dressing had been removed that morning, and the neat little incision with its minute black stitches was clearly visible. The doctor felt it gently, smiling and talking as she did.

By the end of the examination, Al was of the opinion that this was the single most likeable physician he had ever met. She gave her full attention to Stevie, ignoring the adults and never speaking above his level. She was friendly and patient, and she always made sure the boy was completely comfortable before she did anything to his body. When the examination was finished, Stevie threw his arms around her neck.

"I love you, Jeth!" he said happily, then bounced back into Al's lap. "Jeth ith my friend," he confided.

"Yeah," Al said, smiling wholeheartedly. "Yeah, she's great." He settled the child against the pillows and got up. "I just need to go for a little walk with her, okay?"

"Okay, Mithta Al," Stevie said, reaching out his hand for his mother. "Mama thing?" he asked.

As Al and Doctor Ananda left the room, Celestina began to sing to her child.

"Captain Calavicci, I presume?" Ananda asked as the door closed.

"From the jungle through NASA and straight to your arms," Al said suavely. Then he grew grave again. "You're sure good with him."

"Children like Stevie are my life's work, Captain. There's no one I love better," she said. "His incision is mending beautifully."

"Doctor Smithfield said they were worried about complications?" Al asked.

"I don't think there are any worries about the surgery," she said. "We can book him in for another ultrasound, but I don't think that that is necessary." She lowered her eyes. "Captain, are you authorized as the child's agent?"

"Yes, of course I'm—I have no idea what that means," Al admitted, slumping a little. "Celestina trusts me."

"And the father?"

"Illegal alien. He was deported to Mexico when Stevie was a baby," Al said.

"So Mrs. Penja is alone with the child?"

Al nodded. "That guy in there is her brother-in-law. He helps out when he can, and there's a lady on our block who takes care of Stevie when Celestina has to work. Other than that, as far as I know, it's just my wife and I."

"I see. Captain, I want to run a few more tests," she said.

Al's eyes narrowed. "_Why_?"

"I'd rather not leap to conclusions until I can order some diagnostics of my own," she said, smiling sweetly. "I'm not confident enough even to list possibilities at this point. However, you may want to look into having Mrs. Penja sign power of attorney over to you. She doesn't seem particularly equipped to make medical decisions on the child's behalf."

"Power of attorney? Is he that sick?"

"I hope not," she said. "With all my heart, Captain, I hope not."

WMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWM 

Stevie underwent several more tests that day, the immediate upshot of which was that he was scheduled for discharge the next day. When visiting hours ended Al and Sharon stopped for groceries with which to stock the Penjas' cupboard. They cleaned the trailer up, readying it for the returning hero. Then they went home for a little passionate lovemaking, after which Sharon fell contentedly asleep.

Al, not blessed with the same ignorance or the same optimism, crept out of her arms and donned his pajamas and a pair of tennis shoes. Accompanied by Chester, he went out past the bluffs into the open fields on the extreme edge of the city. There he lay on his back, staring up at the stars, and lit up a cigar. While it slowly disintegrated he looked up into the vastness of space with Chester a warm weight on his abdomen, and worried himself into exhaustion.


	25. Chapter TwentyFour

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Stevie was discharged as promised on the evening of the thirtieth, ferried home like a triumphant prince in the Corvette. He sat on Celestina's lap, clutching his stuffed Chester in his hands and laughing as the wind ruffled his hair. Sharon and Juan followed in the station wagon. All five of them went to the Calaviccis' trailer for a spaghetti supper, which the adults relished while Stevie ate as quickly as possible before running off to play with Chester and introduce him to his plush doppelganger. Celestina fairly glowed with delight as she watched her child display more energy than he had had in months.

"See!" she exclaimed, again and again. "He is well! He is healed! The doctors have made him well!"

Al wanted to believe the same thing. Wouldn't it be nice if Stevie's chronic weariness had been no more than a symptom of an inflamed appendix? From everything Al had ever heard, though, appendicitis was a rapid illness: appearing suddenly, climaxing quickly and healing almost immediately after surgery. It didn't make sense that it would have kept Stevie tired and lethargic for months before necessitating hospitalization.

That he had been sent home _had_ to be a good sign, though. Surely if anything had turned up seriously wrong in the tests, they wouldn't have let the boy go. Still, Al couldn't help seeing the thinness of the little body and the unusually wan quality of the round cheeks. The words _power of attorney_ kept playing themselves in his mind, eating away at his confidence that, after all, the child was probably fine.

When the meal was done and the women had done the dishes—Celestina insisted on helping and Sharon, not to be outdone, had granted Al (not about to discourage any signs of domestication) what she called "Chef's Amnesty"—the party moved into the little back yard. Stevie and Chester played fetch while the adults observed from plastic-and-aluminum lawn chairs. Al offered Juan a cigar, which was graciously accepted. Somewhere on the far side of the trailer park, some teenager was hosting a rave, and the distant but still heavy bass rhythms of King Thunder provided an interesting ambiance.

Al took the opportunity, now that nothing important needed saying, to ply his Spanish on Celestina while Sharon and Juan laughed over their own frivolous small talk. Presently Stevie came toddling up to Al, his hands full of pebbles gleaned from the pitiful lawn. Al drew the boy onto his lap and admired the simple treasures with the grave intent of one who knew first hand what value such things had to a child not inundated with the lavish toys most took for granted. The patio lamp—a glorified title for the bare bulb affixed to the back of the Calaviccis' trailer—illuminated the simple scene.

After a few minutes of talking, Stevie's contented eulogy faded and died away as he curled into Al's lap and fell asleep with his head pillowed on the adult's chest. Sharon went into the house and returned with the afghan, which she draped around the child. After half an hour more, Celestina rose and said goodnight. Juan carried Stevie as the small family processed back towards their own humble shelter. Al stood on the sidewalk, his arms around Sharon and his chin resting on her shoulder as he watched them depart.

Sharon let out a sigh of relief. "Thank God that that's over," she said, pirouetting in Al's arms and twining her fingers in his short hair. "Poor little guy."

"Not such a monster after all?" Al said.

"All little boys are monsters, Calavicci," Sharon said firmly. "I'll bet even you were, and don't even try to deny it!"

"Deny it?" Al laughed. "I was a curly-haired demon from the seventh circle of Hell! Did I ever tell you about the time I ran off and joined the circus?"

Sharon laughed. "Nice try," she said. "No one really runs off to join the circus."

"I did," Al told her.

"Did not!"

"I did so!"

"You did not!"

"I did!" he argued with indignation. "How do you think I became such a gifted animal trainer?"

Sharon guffawed. "So now you're an animal trainer?"

"Sure! I've taught Chester all kinds of tricks!" Al bragged.

Bickering amicably, they went back inside, shutting out the desert night.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWMWMWMWMMW 

Al had no idea how he managed it, but by noon the next day he was able to pick himself up from his desk and sit down at Eulalie's vacant one. There, he faxed two hundred and seventy-nine pages to Washington. A quick phone call confirmed that the report had arrived in its entirety, and then Al was able to head home for a well-earned nap.

Having celebrated Christmas with his friends, Sharon was adamant that Al should ring in the new year with hers. Al didn't especially like the idea of squandering one of the premier party nights of the year in the company of aging painters and defunct musicians, but Sharon had made plenty of compromises this month. After all, fair was fair.

Therefore, he allowed himself the luxury of donning some of his most bizarre and colorful clothes. Over the Navy-issue undergarments, which were infinitely more comfortable than the gimmicky numbers his wife had given him for Christmas, he put on a pair of lemon-colored dress pants and the wilder of his two new shirts. A gloriously black necktie and a silver belt with matching suspenders accented the ensemble nicely. Since Sharon assured him this wasn't a suit kind of affair, he opted to forgo vest and jacket. A man's shoes should match his belt, which meant buffing up the chrome-colored disco twisters. His favorite topaz cufflinks provided the finishing touch.

He fingered the jeweled roses adorning each disc pensively, sparing a thought for the woman who had given them to him. Two years ago he'd been heading to a party in Manhattan, accompanied by his then-not-yet third wife Ruthie. Long dark hair, an enormous family, silk slips, and incredible gift in the kitchen, and moods as unpredictable as the winds in the Sea of Japan. Ruthie, Ruthie.

Al chuckled to himself and looked at Chester, who was watching him from the bed.

"Sometimes I miss her, you know," he confided. "Ruthie, she was a good kid. Makes _great_ gefilte fish. And hair right down her back…"

"Who's got a hairy back?" Sharon asked, coming around the corner from the bathroom.

Al whistled softly. "Not you," he said. "You got a hair anywhere on that beautiful body of yours?"

Sharon was wearing one of the slinkiest dresses Al had ever seen. It showed more than it covered, and clung so tightly to what it _did _conceal that it left almost nothing to the imagination. In fact, it bordered on indecent. Maybe this evening wasn't going to be the drag Al took it for after all.

"Oh, one or two," she said sweetly, tossing her head so that her teased curls flew madly about. "You like it?"

"I hate it!" Al cried. "Way too many men are going to see way too much of you!"

"Not the parts you've seen," Sharon promised. "And at the end of the day that's all that matters, isn't it?"

MWMWMWMWMMWMWMWMMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

That seemed to be the general atitude in the upscale split-level where the gathering was hosted. Al had never seen so many adults acting like a bunch of oversexed teens. Being an oversexed teen at heart himself, he loved every minute of it. The music shook the very foundations of the building, the men were friendly, the women were _very_ friendly, and there was food and drink enough to supply a small ocean liner. It wasn't at all what Al had expected as he bobbed and gyrated with Sharon's acquaintances, getting closer than it was politic to get with the staff at Starbright. Meanwhile his underdressed wife was getting very comfortable with a wide assortment of men. The rule seemed to be that the party could continue with as much intimacy as consenting parties wanted, as long as no actual adultery took place. Since Sharon seemed comfortable with it, Al let himself relax and enjoy the kind of party he hadn't had had since getting hitched again.

Nothing about the early part of the evening served to prepare him for the fight.

At midnight, everyone grabbed the nearest person (in some cases of the same gender; an idiosyncrasy Al tried against his every instinct to overlook) and gave them a deep, passionate, involved kiss—the kind of kiss you could only give a total stranger, and only after a night of very, very heavy drinking. Al's partner for this particular event happened to be a tiny, sylph-like seminude girl who was at the extreme youthful end of the age spectrum. He tilted her backwards as they kissed, and his lips and tongue gained additional force as her weight sent pain spidaring out of his left shoulder. Then suddenly she was yanked out of his arms and he was looking up into Sharon's flushed, drunken and livid face.

"What the hell are you doing?" she roared, slapping him full across the face.

Al stared at her stupidly. "Kissing—"

"Bastard!" she cried, and again his head jerked to the side. "You slimy, lecherous bastard!"

"Me?" Al bellowed indignantly. "I wasn't doing anything you weren't d—"

"You stupid man! She's half your age!"

"No, sugar," Al said meanly. "I'd say she's more like half _your_ age!"

The girl in question was in the arms of another man now, and the drunken revelers continued oblivious to the row brewing in the middle of the room. Sharon let out a ululation of inarticulate rage and swung at him with a fist. Al ducked, and the blow went wild. Sharon struck a man in the back of the head. He roared like a musk ox and spun around, sending his partner careening into the table full of snacks. She snatched up a tray full of hors d'oeuvres and flung them at him.

Within seconds the whole room was embroiled in an altercation, part food fight, part pillow fight, and part barroom brawl. Laughter, shouts of anger, and the occasional indecent remark rang out. In the end the room was full of exhausted, inebriated and adults who, one by one, picked themselves up and found their way home.

Al was too drunk to drive, but Sharon was drunker. He practically had to drag her down the walk and fold her into the Corvette. He sat in the cold, dry desert night, rubbing his face with his hands and trying to sober up enough to make the wheel stop fluctuating. He came away with fingers smeared with whipping cream and salsa, and spared a thought of pity for the owners of the house. Sharon was now asleep, snoring quietly, her makeup running and her bosom adorned with an assortment of sticky foodstuffs. Al grinned goofily. He loved a good food fight, and _that_ had been a good food fight!

Finally he had enough control over his vision to find and turn the key, and the Corvette peeled away. They hadn't gone more than four blocks, however, before the road started dancing in a very unsettling manner. Al found a parking lot full of blurry neon lights, and parked in an out-of-the-way corner. Telling himself that he was just going to lie back for a couple of minutes until he sobered up a little, he reclined his seat and drifted off to sleep, his arm snaking over Sharon's torso.

MWWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWM 

After waking up shivering in the predawn darkness on the first day of 1982 to find himself in a parking lot under a sign proclaiming the presence of "Bob's Discount Pizzeria and Shoe Emporium", Al found the rest of the week to be unusually normal. Though worries about Stevie and the inevitable day of reckoning when his test results would be revealed ate at the back of his mind, he filled his days with work and his nights with Sharon. Then came the endless packing, the necessaries of preparing dress blues for transport, the polishing of boots, the trip to the stylist to lop off the excess curls, and finally the passionate—the _very_ passionate farewell on the morning of his departure.

Captain Calavicci was bound for Washington, there to sing for his supper.


	26. Chapter TwentyFive

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Too much white bread and not enough butter, Al reflected, surveying the embassy ballroom. The bulk of the population tonight consisted of WASP senators and congressmen and their middle-aged, matronly wives. There was the occasional trophy bride or pretty young daughter, but for the most part if a man didn't have his original mate on his arm he was alone.

Al was no exception in that respect, though he did stand out rather conspicuously in another way, his dress uniform odd in the sea of black. Despite the ccrawling feeling on the back of his neck that meant people were staring, he kept his shoulders squared so that his chestful of ribbons were thrust out in testimony to a record of which he was not especially proud. He knew from experience how easily civilians were impressed by a little spit and polish. With the entire committee present at this gathering, he couldn't afford to turn down the opportunity to dazzle. After all, the stronger the impression of capable dignity he cultivated now, the easier his job would be on Monday.

So he turned on the old Calavicci charm full force and went about the unpleasant task of prostituting himself for his Project.

Al loved Starbright. He really did. Despite the daily frustrations and the drudgery and the quibbling, he loved her. There weren't many things that he was passionate about, but the Project was one of them. He'd do anything to keep her afloat, even tolerate these absurd cocktail parties. Now, Al loved a good party, but this was anything but. This was a gathering of politicians looking to further their own agendas—and their wives were worse! Political wives, as a rule, were morbidly curious. All night they plied Al with questions—both about his past and about Starbright—that he couldn't answer, taking his reticence as a personal affront.

It was around eleven, just about the time when it was becoming bitterly obvious that there weren't enough martinis in the District of Columbia to turn this into an enjoyable evening, that Al spied an Ally. Trying not to look too desperately overjoyed, Al zeroed in on the friendly face as quickly as he could. He crossed the room and grapbbed the man's arm.

"Les!" he exclaimed. "How've you been?"

The man turned, and an enormous grin spread across his face. "Calavicci!" he exclaimed. "And I thought you'd decided to blow it off!"

"The funding hearings?" Al said. "Wouldn't dream of it! Always a pleasure to see old friends and tell you all how well I'm spending your money!"

Usually you didn't put it that way to politicians. They didn't like to be reminded that things cost—and they especially hated it when you implied tha tone person held most of the spending power. Congressman Les Davies, Colorado, wasn't just any politician, though. He and Al had been in some sticky situations together. He was as close a pal as Al had in Washington, and the Naval officer knew he could trust him not to take comments like that the wrong way.

"I hope you've got impressive results," the congressman said. "There are some guys on that committee who think these research projects are a waste of tax dollars."

Al laughed. "A waste? Do you have any idea the kind of benefits this country has seen from—"

"Easy does it, Al," Les chuckled. "I didn't say that _I _felt that way. You're preaching to the choir. Now, I hear you found yourself a new wife!"

"Yeah, Sharon! She's great. Fantastic. I mean, she's _excellent_. How's Sarah?"

"Fine. Talking to Mrs. Germany over there," Les said, nodding at his buxom wife of thirty years and a statuesque blonde who was, presumably, the wife of the German ambassador. "You've been busy."

"I try," Al said. "After all, if you can't come home to a beautiful woman, why do you bother coming home at all?"

"That isn't quite what I meant," Les said. "I had a layover at the Denver airport two days ago, and what do you think I found in the terminal bookstore?"

Al's brow furrowed. "Is this a riddle?"

Les stared at him inscrutably for a minute, then grinned. "What do you say you and I tell a few stories? I'm sure all these nice folks would like to hear about our long and colorful friendship!"

Al snorted a little into his martini. "We met in the Blue Room at Briarpatch," he said softly. "You were…"

He didn't want to think about it. He shook his head. "You were in rough shape," he finished lamely.

"And you were wearing manacles and a dog collar, fresh off the truck from the Hilton," Les said. "They were trying to get answers out of me, but the second you opened your smart mouth they all focussed on you. I'll never forget that," the congressman said, his voice still silky, the lazy drawl hiding any pain this reminiscing was causing him.

"You woulda done the same thing," Al mumbled. He wasn't comfortable with this train of thought at all. Too much to forget. Too much that would never be forgotten. He drained his martini and caught the eye of one of the circulating waiters. He caught up a fresh one with ease.

"You want to tell everyone what they did?" Les asked. He caught a circulating colleague by the arm. "I'm sure Bill wants to hear."

"Oh, I don't think that's necessary," Al demurred.

"Don't be silly!" Les said. "Tell Bill. Bill, this is Al Calavicci. He and I were in 'Nam together, did you know that? First day we met he saved my sorry ass. Paid for it, too. You going to tell it, Al?"

The tone was light and pleasant, full of gratitude and admiration. Les didn't know how he was twisting the knife. He didn't understand how hard Al tried not to think about Vietnam, ever. Not to think about it, and certainly not to talk about it. Al managed a tiny smile. "No one wants to hear it," he said.

"Of course people want to hear it," Les said. "If you won't tell them, let me. Bill, they were beating on me when Al got brought in, and he started swearing a blue streak. English, Italian, Viet, anything he could throw at them. That got them distracted right away. They stripped off his prison fatigues—I guess he must've worn them for days straight—and they—"

Al mumbled some kind of clumsy excuse and slipped away. The martini glass was empty, but he found another. Poor Les. He only wanted to boast about his buddy, the hero. The trouble was that that "hero" was actually a craven coward, scared even to face the memories of those months, those years. Hiding his discomfort behind a glass and a radiant smile, Al began to circulate again.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWMWMWMWM 

Washington in January was a far cry from Arizona. Al had almost forgotten what a wet cold felt like. The walk home, though in some ways cathartic, was also miserable. "Home" wasn't very cheery, either, despite the fact that he was housed in one of the best hotels within easy access of Capitol Hill. In his twefth-floor room a hot bath took some of the ague off of his chest, but the empty bed wasn't very inviting. Al hated empty beds. Fortunately the room had a mini-bar, and he helped himself to some of life's little pleasures as he worked up the courage required to turn out the light. Even after he was settled between the sheets he lay awake for a long time, thinking about his history with Les Davies.

They had been cellmates for a while: two of five men sharing a tiny dungeon in the most primitive of the V.C.'s "official" prisons. The food had been scarce, the water foul, and the hospitality brutal at best. There had been one especially bad month when everybody had come down with cholera. They had all thought that dysentery was bad, but it had nothing on cholera. In cramped and unventilated quarters, the disease was unbearable. Everyone had drawn on wells of patience that they didn't know they had, and everyone had, eventually, reached the breaking point.

Les had just about died during that epidemic, but somehow he pulled through. Al had fought harder than he'd thought he could to make the other pilot hold on. They'd come through it, all right.

The last time he'd seen Les before signing on with Starbright was The Morning. The morning when Major Quon had come to hand-pick his trophies.

Al shivered as his mind took him back, unwillingly, to that day. The heat was unbearable. No one had been given their water ration yet, and the prisoners stood in four long lines, wilting in the blazing sun. A one-eyed man in VC fatigues had come out of the Camp Commander's bungalow, surveying the captives critically.

No one had known what was going on, but it was plain that a few recognized the stranger. Al sure did. He'd met up with Quon once before, in the Highlands, just after being shot down. He wasn't the kind of guy you forgot. The others who knew him hadn't forgotten, either, and the fear that came from their knowledge aggravated the fear of the others, the fear that came from ignorance. The whole jungle had reeked of fear.

Up and down the rows Quon had walked, tilting a chin here, pinching an arm there, like a farmer surveying horses as he debated which ones to purchase. Those who knew a little Vietnamese quickly gathered at least part of what was going on. This man with the disfigured face was going to take some captives away with him. Where, no one knew, but one look at his grim visage and the scuffed but of his M-16, and there could be no doubt that you were better off with the Camp Commander and his ropes…

One by one Quon chose his men: the sick, the weak, the whole, the defiant. Five of them, herded away from the others by the guerrillas, chained hand and foot, forced to lie on their bellies in the bed of an old truck. Last of all Quon came to Al. Recognition was not one-sided. He was remembered: his defiance, his scornful mockery of the disfigurement. It probably didn't help that he sneered and greeted the soldier with scorn.

Quon beat him with the M-16. Locked in heavy irons, Al could neither run, nor fight back, nor protect himself. The blows rained down on his head, his shoulders, his back. They glanced off his kidneys and dug into his ribs. He didn't scream. He locked his jaw and didn't give Quon the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

When it was over and he was dragged to his feet Al could scarcely stand. His eyes were already swelling so that he knew by nightfall he wouldn't be able to see. Blood flowed freely down his face from his nose and his mouth. His ears were ringing. Each breath was agony. His legs shook beneath him.

They tied his arms to the handle of the passenger door. The truck started up and trundled away. Over jungle trails the battered vehicle couldn't do more than ten miles an hour, but just try running at that speed for more than a few minutes! Al didn't know how long he would have lasted in his peak physical condition, but beaten as he was he could scarcely keep pace. His feet stumbled. One sandal was lost, then the other. His knees shook. His head was bloated. His abused ribs wouldn't allow ample breath. He fell, his legs scraping the rough ground, his arms holding the whole weight of his body, dragging it along. They let him ride like this for ten minutes before they stopped and threw him in the back with the others.

His raw legs were numb, but the agony in his shoulders ate away at his sanity. The truck hit a bump and he rolled against one abused joint, and a scream of hellish torment woke him with a start. He was alone in the dark, in the empty hotel room, with Sharon and Chester and the comforts of home thousands of miles away, and all other consolations forbidden by the necessity of fidelity.

Al got onto shaking legs and stumbled across the room to the cluster of little bottles. As soon as he tried to open one he realized that the anguish in his shoulder wasn't residual memories. It was all too real. But he needed a drink. He needed the one pleasure he _could _ have. With his teeth he gripped the cap of the little bottle of vodka. The effort of opening it with his mouth and right hand almost sent him to his knees, weakened already as he was, but in the end his tenacity paid off. He drained it. The next bottle was easier to manage. By the fourth he could use his left arm again. One by one he emptied them all, hands trembling less with each passing swallow. Grateful for the numbness, both physical and emotional, that followed the liquor's burning passage to his stomach, he crawled back to bed, curling into a tight ball and letting oblivion wash over him in waves.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWMWM 

Thankfully after that first night the trip got easier. He must have done something right either with the report or at the party, because the committee weren't nearly as demanding as usual. Maybe it was his style. Once upon a time when he'd been new to the game of panhandling from the government, Al had performed with all the finesse of a well-trained monkey. Now he approached hearings with a less Sophistic attitude. Oratory wasn't important. Maybe you could inspire your average bureaucratic drone with talk of Kennedy and space ships and the American Dream, but they weren't going to be awed by the beauty of quantum physics or particle acceleration. Therefore, you had to use tiny, easy words and simple analogies. The real trick was to make sure that you didn't let on, not even for a minute, that you felt like you were explaining things to a really stupid four-year-old. If ever they suspected that you thought they were thick as bricks… well, it hadn't happened to Al yet, and he was going to make damned sure that it didn't.

He was actually really good at it; not that anybody cared. He could make the senators feel like intelligent and enlightened individuals, experts in this incredibly advanced science. When a project made them feel like geniuses, completely oblivious to their true ignorance, that was when they started writing the cheques.

The worst part of the hearings was avoiding Les. He was present as a liason to Congress: the only member of the committee not from the Senate. He wanted to be friendly, to while away breaks with Al and to reminisce. Al, of course, wanted anything _but_ reminiscing. He wanted to live in the present, and leave Hell behind. He couldn't do it himself, and when someone else was supplementing his mind's traitorous tendencies, the result was absolute wretchedness and waking nightmares. He didn't want to hurt his friend, but neither did he want to spend each night doctoring his nightmares from four-ounce bottles.

In the end charisma won out, as it always did, and Al was awarded a full renewal of funding, and even three of the seven increases he had had the almighty nerve to beg for. On the whole it was a successful mission.

Though scheduled to remain in Washington for one more day of schmoozing and socializing, Al opted to cut out early. Take the money and run: that was the way to play it. Besides, he had more pressing worries than next year's hearings. His heart in his mouth, he waited at the airport. All the long flight back to Arizona he worried, for surely the results of Stevie's tests had to be ready by now.


	27. Chapter TwentySix

NOTE: I would just like to thank everyone for continuing to tune in. FF-dot-net has been very uncooperative lately. I'm not sure why it hates me so much this week, but it does!

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Al wanted to check on the Penjas, but by the time he reached the trailer park it was two in the morning and their windows were dark. He parked the Corvette and took his bags out of the trunk. His shoulder was aching again, and he struggled with the tarp. With a little maneuvering he managed to get all of the baggage into his right hand, leaving his left with the task of getting the door unlocked and open. He stumbled a little in the darkened entryway, but won through to the kitchen, where he deposited his burden indiscriminately on the floor. Pausing for a moment over a strange scent in the air, Al was quickly distracted by something much more pressing and more pleasant.

There was a yelp of joy and the jangling of collar tags as Chester came careening into the room, panting and bouncing. Al dropped to his knees in the dark, feeling for the dog. He lifted him up so that the terrier's forepaws rested on the right crest of his collarbone. Chester licked his face affectionately. The faintly sour smell of unwashed fur told Al that Sharon had neglected to give him his weekly baths. Gone for twelve days and she couldn't even bathe the dog?

"Hey, buddy," he said quietly, relishing the feel of the rough little tongue affectionately lapping at his neck. "I missed you, too."

He got unsteadily to his feet. He hadn't realized how tired he was. Supporting Chester with his right arm, he groped for the light switch, and the familiar confines of his kitchen came gradually into focus as his eyes adapted to the brightness. What he saw froze him in his tracks.

From the looks of things, Sharon hadn't washed a single dish since he had left. Pots, plates, bowls and glasses were piled in the sink and scattered around the counters. An open bag of potato chips sat amid the detritus of two weeks worth of mail on the table. Jars of murky rinse water had somehow found their way out of the studio, and an expended tube of green oil paint was staining the melamine surface next to the toaster. The floor hadn't been swept, there were bread crusts on the counters, and every cupboard door hung ajar. Sharon had apparently undressed once or twice in this room, because a bra, used panties and a couple of shirts lay crumpled on various chairs, and there was a pair of skintight jeans balled up in the corner.

Al stood for a moment, frozen in consternation and surprise with Chester still obliviously snuffling fondly against his neck. Then he moved through to the living room and turned on the lamp there.

The disorder continued: an empty pizza box on the sofa, dishes on the end tables, plastic wrappers on the carpet. There were more clothes in here, dropped where they had been removed. A large sketchbook had been abandoned mid-drawing, and Sharon had left the sticks of charcoal on the rug.

All the fond thoughts Al had entertained about sneaking into bed in the dark and waking Sharon with the preludes of passion fled. With a sweeping motion that sent a fresh thrill of pain into his arm, he cleared the debris off of his armchair and set Chester on it. The terrier looked up in some confusion, brown eyes bewildered and adoring. Then he turned around three times and lay down with a satisfied huff. Al didn't spare him a second glance as he marched into the bedroom.

The overhead light came on with a snap, and Al strode towards the bed in which Sharon was lying, fast asleep. In the periphery of his vision he could see more abandoned clothing, art supplies, shopping bags and soiled dishes. He made sure he had a firm grip on the bedclothes.

"Get up!" he barked, using that voice so unique to a Naval officer—a voice that never failed to produce results. With a quick jerk of his good arm, he hauled the blankets off of the bed.

Sharon awoke with a squeal of surprise, jackknifing into a sitting position and instinctively covering herself with her arms as her eyes squinted against the light. "What the—"

"I said get up!" Al cried. "NOW!"

Sharon squirmed a little against the headboard, and a seductive smile crept over her face. "Hey, baby," she said, her eyes still rumpled tightly closed.

" 'He_y, baby?_' " Al echoed in hoarse disbelief. "What the hell have you done to this house?"

"Uh?"

"I've never seen such a damned mess!" Al roared. "Get up and look at this!"

Sharon groaned and curled up on the denuded sheet. Al lunged forward, seized her wrist and pulled her onto her feet. Still half asleep, she stumbled after him into the living room.

"Look at this!" Al bellowed, gesturing enormously despite the pang of discomfort that resulted from the gesture. "Look at this mess! What the hell have you been doing?"

Sharon shrugged, blinking rapidly. "Kicking back and relaxing," she said. "So what?"

Al tried to parrot her, but he was choking on the words, unable to believe she had actually said them. Sharon was almost completely awake now, her arms crossed over her chest and a look of exasperation on her face.

"What's your problem?" she said.

Al just stared at her.

Sharon's brow knit into a frown of annoyance. "Well, if that's all you have to say, then I'm going back to bed!" she huffed. "If the mess bothers you that much, go ahead and clean it up."

"Fine!" Al cried as she turned away and stomped back towards the bedroom. "Fine, then, I will!"

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMMWMWMWMMWMWM_

By dawn he had restored some semblance of order to the trailer and his nervous energy was waning rapidly. Al moved through the once again livable living room into the bedroom he had tidied without regard for the whirlwind of destruction sleeping there. He dug out some loose, comfortable clothing and fresh underwear, which he dropped off in the bathroom. He stripped in the alcove just off the entrance to the trailer, adding his clothes to the load of laundry (three of seven, Sharon having neglected this chore, too) that was running right now. Then it was back to the bathroom for a blisteringly hot shower that took some of the ache out of his muscles and washed away the sweat of travel and labor.

Feeling like a new man, Al emerged ready to face the day. He routed through the pile of mail he had gathered from every corner of the building and began to go through it. There was a notice of alimony payment from his attorney, which he unceremoniously chucked. As long as his second wife got her money he didn't need to worry about it one way or another. Water bill, electricity bill. He set those aside to be dealt with later. A belated Christmas card from an old pal. Next was a letter, and Al grinned as he recognized the neat script. Ruthie!

He settled on the sofa, soon joined by Chester, and read. His third wife was well. The letter was filled with news about the kids: Ruthie had an abundance of nieces and nephews, all of whom Al had liked a great deal. Sometimes he missed those kids. Mostly he missed the sense of belonging to a family, instead of being the "gross" uncle nobody wanted to look at, much less actually spend time with.

He made a mental note to write back as soon as he had the chance, and resumed his perusing of his correspondence. There was a notice of the annual cost-of-living raise from the Navy, which was always good news. A friendly reminder from the vet that Chester was due for his check-up. Flyers from a couple of record clubs, which Sharon really could have taken the initiative to dispose of herself!

Next was an official-looking white envelope, which Al opened anxiously. A sigh of relief followed the realization that it was nothing more than a breakdown of Stevie's hospital charges. He perused the list academically, noting test after test that they still didn't have results for. When he got to the practitioners, though, his heart sprung to his throat. The doctor Stevie had actually liked was on there, with her qualifications and department listed.

_Jessica D. Ananda, BSc.Pharm, M.D., Ph.D._, it read. _Pediatric Oncology_.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

Al paced the office anxiously. It was a spacious room, handsomely decorated in cheerful colors. There was a box of toys on a flowered mat in one corner, a sofa and three armchairs in another, and a businesslike desk near the large window. A framed illustration from "Goodnight Moon", an oil painting of "The Owl and the Pussycat", and a photograph of a beautiful, round-faced baby girl adorned the walls, along with the usual degrees and licenses. It was a pleasant place: a pretty setting in which to impart devastating news.

He had been waiting for over an hour, but in all fairness the nurse at the station outside had warned him that Doctor Ananda was on her rounds, and would probably be a while. That didn't make it any easier: all it did was strip away any excuse Al might have had to be angry.

His thoughts were muddled, and he wished he had had the sense to bring some refreshment. He hadn't even stopped to grab breakfast, which he had had every intention of making this morning, too. His throat was dry and there was a palsy in his hands: a nervous twitch. Oncology. Pediatric oncology. A fancy euphemism for a hideous thing: childhood cancer.

Stevie had cancer. Al tried, but couldn't talk himself out of it. He tried to tell himself that all it meant was that they suspected cancer, that it could be a false alarm, that any number of problems might lead a physician to suspect something that wasn't really there. There was a word for it… differential diagnosis. Maybe this was a case of differential diagnosis.

The optimistic voice was tempting, but in reality Al knew better. Things never worked out right. You cared about somebody, and they walked out on you, or they got well and decided they didn't need you, or some bastard of a lawyer stole them away, or they got sick and died. He cared about Stevie. He had made the mistake of letting himself care, and because of that the poor little kid had to be stricken with an ugly and painful disease. Just like Pop.

Al's pacing grew more frenetic. He wanted to scream, or break something. Really he wanted to break down in tears of anxiety and desolation, but that wasn't happening. No way in hell would he let that happen. Instead he paced, from wall to wall. He ran his hand Doctor Ananda's bookshelf, his fingers rippling over The British Pharmacopeia and Gray's Anatomy. There was a copy of War and Peace, too, and, Al noticed with brief amusement, The Martian Chronicles. The lower shelves were filled with children's books, from The Hobbit to Green Eggs and Ham, placed within easy reach of the physician's young patients. Under other circumstances Al would have been impressed by the welcoming atmosphere of the vacant room. Now he was in too much anguish to do anything but take cursory notice and pace.

At last the door opened, and Al whirled around, unaware of how pale and wild-eyed he looked. Doctor Ananda froze with a gasp of surprise.

"Captain Calavicci," she exclaimed, closing the door. "Have a seat."

"Stevie," Al said. "He's got cancer."

She pressed her lips together. "Captain, we could have discussed this on Wednesday," she said softly.

"Wednesday?"

"Yes. Esteban's appointment. I scheduled it with his mother and your wife. She seemed to think it wouldn't be a problem."

Al felt a tiny flush of shame at barging in here like this when others had already made the arrangements. "I've been out of town," he said.

"Yes, that's what Mrs. Calavicci said. However, since you're here now we might as well talk. Have you arranged for power of attorney?" Ananda asked, setting her stethoscope on the desk and hanging her lab coat on a peg affixed to the back of the door.

"No," Al said. "I had no idea, until I opened this…" He took the invoice from his pocket. "I thought you specialized in Downs syndrome kids."

"I do," she said. "I did my doctoral thesis on ALL chemotherapy complications and adverse drug reactions in children borne with Trisomy 21."

"Which in English means?" Al asked.

A small smile visited the physician's oval face. "In English, I studied the problems that leukemia treatment causes for children like Esteban."

"Leukemia?" Al choked. "Blood cancer?"

She nodded.

"Stevie has blood cancer?" He was aware that that was a leap in logic, but he wasn't feeling very logical today.

"Yes," she said.

There was a stunned silence. Al stared at the physician, then at his hands, and then back at Ananda. "That's it? Just 'yes'? Like it isn't a big deal?" he blustered.

"Captain, it _is_ a big deal. It's a huge, life-changing thing. We're talking about a disease that can be fatal within months of diagnosis. Esteban is a very ill little boy."

The calmness in her voice was infuriating. Al sprung to his feet, agitated and out of control. "Months? When were you going to tell us? At the funeral?" he roared.

She blinked once, exquisitely tranquil. "On Wednesday. The appointment was made as soon as I was sure of the diagnosis." She reached out and took his hand, guiding him back down into the chair. "Esteban has acute lymphoblastic leukemia. It's one of the most common pediatric cancers, and it's endemic among Downs syndrome children in particular."

Al could hardly speak. His throat was starting to close. "What does it mean for Stevie?" he croaked.

"His body is making abnormal white blood cells," she explained. "He's going to need chemotherapy treatments."

"And he's going to die."

"Captain, his chances of survival are very good. We can achieve remission in up to ninety percent of patients. One in two is cured outright. Esteban's still asymptomatic: if we hadn't had him in here for his appendectomy, we wouldn't even know yet that he was sick. The earlier you treat cancer, the better the chances," intoned the doctor. "With the right medical care, there's absolutely no reason Esteban shouldn't live a good many years yet."

"That's what you say," Al muttered.

"Yes, that's what I say. I know leukemia, Captain Calavicci. Esteban's chances are very good."

"Yeah? Well, if you're such an expert why are you working at Wickenburg General instead of Sick Kids in Phoenix?" he challenged.

"I'm at Sick Kids three days a week," she said with a small smile. "And I work here because there are children who need me here. Children whose parents can't afford inpatient therapy."

"Well, Stevie can!" Al said. "Anything he needs. I'm not going to lose him!"

She smiled. "That's the right attitude, Captain. We aren't going to lose him."

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"To Phoenix?" Celestina said, frowning in confusion. "Esteban goes to Phoenix?"

"To the Children's Hospital," Al said. This was the hardest conversation he had ever had. "He can get treatment—"

"Treatment," she said. "For cancer."

"Yes," Al said firmly.

Celestina shook her head. "He gets treatment here," she said. "Señor Andriuk, his sister have cancer. She go to hospital in the day, come home at night. Not go to Phoenix."

"He can get better care in Phoenix," Al said. "There are specialists there. People who know—"

"Good doctors here!" Celestina said fiercely. "Good doctors fix appen-dicts. They help him here. Not go to Phoenix."

"But Celestina—"

"No! Esteban not go to Phoenix! Stay here, here where his Mama is, where kind Señor Calavicci is. Esteban stay here!"

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By the end of the day it was settled. In a week's time, Esteban would be admitted for his first round of chemotherapy under Doctor Ananda's supervision. He wouldn't go to Phoenix. Al didn't like that; not in the least. Yet he couldn't argue with Celestina. Now he cursed his neglecting of the legal recourse the doctor had suggested at New Year's. But he hadn't imagined, not even in his worst nightmares, that Stevie was so seriously ill.

He returned home that evening heartsick, discouraged and exhausted after running around madly and living horrors he hadn't expected to have to relive. Sharon was out, probably with some of her damned friends. Al drained half a bottle of whiskey before crawling into bed.


	28. Chapter TwentySeven

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Sharon bent over the spindly wheel of her van and sighed. She shouldn't have done that. Now he was confused and sad, and worse off than before. She had known that coming out here two days in a row would be hard on her, but she hadn't realized that it would be hard on him, too.

She had forgotten, temporarily, how easily Dad was bewildered. Now he was in there, frightened and puzzled because as far as he was concerned he had lost a whole week of his life. She hadn't meant to mix him up. It had just seemed like a good way to get out of the house and still accomplish something vaguely worthwhile.

Al and his damned ridiculous obsessive-compulsive fixation with neatness! If he'd just come home like a normal man, shucking his clothes and reaching for a beer or making straight for the bed, then there wouldn't have been any problem. They could have had a nice night of creative sex, and in the morning she would've straightened things up a bit. Heck, if he'd even had the decency to come home when he was expected instead of a day early, then she could have done a little damage control!

Waking up to find him gone had been a disappointment, too. Sharon was one of those ladies who woke up in a romantic mood, and she'd been celibate for twelve days, too! The only thing to do had been to feed the dog and head out to visit Dad before she did something she and Al would both regret.

Sharon didn't like to think she was the kind of woman who would actually act on her promiscuous impulses. She didn't like to even think of them as promiscuous impulses. They were more… _transient fantasies_. The truth was, though, that fidelity was an art, and not one in which she had had much practice in recent years. She wasn't what one would call "loose", but these last ten months with Al had been the longest stretch she had gone with one man and one man only in the last two decades. It was starting to get boring.

Not the sex. The sex was great—if and when they had it. But with the craziness at the secret project, and the neighbor's kid with his appendix and now the trip to Washington, their impassioned-encounter-to-calendar-day ratio was getting dangerously low. The whole point of getting married was for mutual help, companionship and entertainment. Companionship they were all right for, but she couldn't help Al with his work and he wouldn't let her help with his health, and now the entertainment, too, was less than frequent. Last night's little performance had been the most recent in a never-ending string of annoyances that was starting to wear away at her patience.

She drummed on the wheel, trying to make up her mind whether she should go back in and try to make it right with her father, or whether there were any good parties going down on a Monday night in mid-January, or whether she should just go home and see if Al wanted to get roaring drunk—or failing that, get roaring drunk all by herself.

Going back inside wasn't an option. Sharon knew that would only make things worse. And he would start talking about Mom again, and she couldn't stand that. None of this would be so bad if he wouldn't talk about Mom. Didn't he understand that they all missed her and it just made things worse to talk about her?

He didn't, of course, and that was the problem.

Sharon sighed. She wasn't cut out for this. She was born to have fun. Both the Quinn kids had been: Sharon to have sparkling, fanciful and imaginative fun, and Rich to have loud, boisterous, down-to-earth fun. Somehow her brother had held on to his birthright, and she was the one married to a traumatized war vet with a screwed up shoulder, living in a trailer park full of sick children and incredibly impoverished immigrants, and visiting the parent who grew more incoherent each week. Rich thought that he was doing his part, taking Dad on the holidays and paying for his care. He didn't realize that there was more to it than that, and she didn't have the heart to tell him otherwise. Why should they both be miserable about something neither of them could help?

At least the worries over Esteban Penja were over, she reflected. It had been so hard on Al, worrying about the child and laboring frantically at the project. Maybe now he could start eating properly again. She hadn't really been awake last night, but she thought he looked thinner than ever. It wasn't right for a man pushing fifty to be so thin. They should have a little extra flesh here and there. Daddy had started to lose weight when he was about Al's age. The year Rich had started middle school Sharon had come home for Thanksgiving to find that Dad had shed fifteen pounds since August, and look what had happened to _him_. Two decades later he didn't even know what day it was.

A shiver of fear coursed up Sharon's spine and she started the puttering German engine. She'd go home, and whether or not Al wanted to get roaring drunk she was going to make sure he got a decent meal.

The miles slipped away beneath her, and soon the lights of Wickenburg stained the desert sky. When she reached the trailer park and saw the windows of her residence darkened, she frowned. He had gone off to his stupid Project, running himself ragged after staying up all night cleaning the house! The stupid man was going to kill himself!

She gathered up her purse and marched inside. No Chester came running to greet her, which was annoying. She had actually fallen in love with the little fur-ball. Her wee, fuzzy baby. Sharon tossed keys and handbag on the table and kicked off her shoes. She had tied her hair back today, and paused to fumble with the knot in the chiffon scarf, shaking loose her generous mane of curls.

Faint snoring told her that she had misjudged. Al was home, and fast asleep. Cautiously, she moved on stocking feet into the bedroom, allowing her eyes to adjust. He was lying in the middle of the bed, pillows forgotten, curled into an almost fetal position. Chester lay curled up against his chest, and Al had his right arm crooked around the dog in the way that one would hold a teddy bear. His dark hair was damp with sweat, and his pale face smoothed of its lines of anxiety and care. He looked almost like a little boy napping with his little pet.

Sharon drew nearer and slid onto the bed, bending over Al and kissing his forehead. He moaned softly.

"Beth…" he whispered.

The spell was broken. Sharon frowned in annoyance. "Not so much," she said. "Wake up, you big lump. I'll bet you skipped supper, didn't you?"

Al's eyes opened, and Sharon was surprised to see how red and bloodshot they were. He frowned in confusion, then scowled. "Wadda you want?" he asked thickly.

"I wanted to know if you'd like to have a little welcome-home party," Sharon said, stroking his chest with her index finger. She could smell the whiskey on his breath. "But it looks like you have a head start."

Al's eyebrow arced in annoyance and he sat up, disturbing Chester. The terrier trotted across the mattress to snuffle Sharon's hand fondly. "So what? It's my whiskey."

"So nothing. Come on and I'll make you some supper."

"I'm not hungry."

She studied his face: the deep grooves of worry, the shadows under his reddened eyes, and the painful emotion he was trying to hide. "Baby?" she said softly, reaching out to stroke his cheek. "Baby, what's wrong?"

For an instant the mask of stern control melted and the agony was laid bare. Sharon knew that look. It was the look of someone whose world was collapsing. It was the look Daddy had worn the morning Mom hadn't awakened. The one and only time he had really understood that she was dead. Instinctively she opened her arms and gathered Al into them. He let out a shuddering exhalation and buried his face against her bosom.

Then abruptly he straightened, pulling out of her arms and scowling grimly. "I've got some bad news," he said coldly, getting to his feet and wrapping his bathrobe over his shorts-clad body. "I'll fix us a couple of vodka espressos and tell you about it."

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWMWMWMWMWM 

Sharon stared numbly at the inky, alcohol-laced coffee. "Cancer?" she whispered.

Al nodded. "Leukemia," he said, his voice unyielding. "He starts chemotherapy next week."

Sharon knocked back half the drink. "Oh, God," she breathed. "Does Celestina know?"

"Of course she knows!" Al said harshly. "How the hell was I s'posta keep something like that from her? Although," he added, his voice suddenly scarcely above a whisper; "I don't know if she really understands."

"I'm sure she does," Sharon said. "She speaks English really well—"

"No, I mean I don't think she understands how serious it is!" Al snapped. "She thinks they can just wave a magic scalpel and make it all better, the way they did with his goddamn appendix! Damn it, Sharon, that boy could die!"

"Is that what the doctor said?" Sharon asked.

"Months, she said. Months after diagnosis."

"Surely she meant if it's untreated," she reasoned.

"How the hell do I know?" Al demanded, draining his shot glass and going for the gin. "She said months."

"He starts chemotherapy next week, you said," prompted Sharon, trying to turn him away from his anger. "Are we…" She bit her lip. He wasn't going to take kindly to that.

And he didn't. "Of course we are—I am!" he cried. "Damn you, woman, you think I'm just going to let him—I can't just let him… Damn it!" Al slammed the bottle down on the counter and took a long swallow from the water tumbler he had filled. "Money! All you ever think about! Money!"

Sharon got wrathfully to her feet. "It isn't all I think about!" she cried. "You think I don't care about Esteban?"

"You called him a monster!" Al said, his voice slurring as his inebriated anger mounted. "Names: everyone calls him names! Dummy, monkey-face, retard! Names and names and more names! Why can't you people just leave him alone! Just leave her alone! LEAVE HER ALONE!"

"I've never called him any such thing!" Sharon said. "All little boys are monsters, I said, and it's got nothing to do with Downs syndrome! Don't you dare accuse me of using words like that, Albert Calavicci, 'cause I—"

"I said leave him alone!" roared Al, stumbling forward. Sharon backed up instinctively as he threw his head back into another long quaff of the liquor. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about! _Du mai! Du mai, chó dè!_"

Spewing obscenities in a strange language, he took another unsteady step forward. Sharon had seen him drunk before, but never this angry in his cups. A thrill of fear coursed through her, but she wasn't about to show weakness in the face of this furious creature. She thrust out her chin and shouted right back.

"You dirty rummy!" she taunted. "Aren't you even sober enough to speak English?"

"I'll show you English, you stupid cow!" he bellowed, throwing the glass so it shattered against the wall. Chester, who had come out after them, ran with a yelp from the room. "You with your horrible smutty paintings and your filthy dishes and your damned niece—"

"Leave Clara alone!" Sharon shrieked. "Whatever it was you did to her to make her so disgusted with you—what am I saying? You don't even have to try! _I'm_ disgusted with you, you foul-mouthed, slobbering drunk, and let me tell you I've slept with some real trash in my time! Never one quite like you though, you lecherous, dirty-minded, vitriolic, stinking, egotistical, patchwork-backed dwarf!"

Al lunged forward with a thick exclamation of rage. She cringed as he reached out to grab her, but his hands were quivering and his fingers shook. "You don't know—you can't know—" he grunted, his voice loud and blurred, his breath reeking of liquor and expensive Arabica coffee.

"Oh, I know more than you think!" Sharon shrieked, tossing her head so that wild tendrils of hair smacked his cheek. The drunken man stiffened in shock. "I know all about it, you pathetic alcoholic basket case! You think just 'cause you did some hard time for your country that that gives you the right to judge the rest of u—"

All at once her words were cut off in violent suction. There was pain on her lips, on her teeth… and suddenly she realized that it wasn't pain at all, but excruciating pleasure. Al had pulled her into the most involved, sudden and ravenous kiss she had ever experienced. When they parted for air she stared at him, her eyes wide. He stared back, the brown of his irises almost black against the veins standing out in the corneas. A sound, part snarl, part gasp and part whimper, welled up in his throat.

"I need…" he grunted, pulling her to him and sucking at her mouth again. "I need…"

"Yes!" Sharon gasped, her lips tingling and her hips already grinding against his. "Yes, baby, oh, yes!"


	29. Chapter TwentyEight

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

February was one of the most thoroughly exhausting months Al had had in a long time. He remembered stressful times with NASA, weeks with little sleep, never-ending exercises and eternal rounds of tests. In his days training aviators at Lakehurst there had been the occasional stretch of sleepless nights filled with worries and paperwork. None of it, though—nothing he had been through since repatriation—came close to touching the strain of the second month of 1982.

Stevie was admitted to the hospital while they put him on loading doses of the toxic cocktails that would hopefully let him see another summer. Those four days weren't so bad. It was afterwards, when he went to outpatient therapy, that things began to get complicated.

Al hadn't exaggerated the limited support net that Celestina had to deal with. There was her brother-in-law, now working somewhere in New Mexico, the elderly neighbor who had provided childcare during the previous summer, and the two Calaviccis. Juan was too distant to be any help, and the old woman could neither take Stevie to the hospital nor cope with his symptoms. Celestina worked from eight until three each weekday at the dry cleaner's, and Stevie had intravenous therapies on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings.

After some careful thought and several conferences, Al, Celestina and Sharon worked out care for the child. On the three days of the week when Stevie went in for chemo Al went with him. He sat next to the boy in the oncology clinic, talking to him, singing to him and trying to distract them. The unwanted stimuli were endless. The frightening parade of physicians and nurses, the gurneys and chairs filled with patients receiving similar treatment, the nausea and weakness, and the line trickling poisons into his little body. It took all Al's faculties to get the child through these long and difficult mornings.

Unless something went wrong, as things occasionally did, chemotherapy took four hours on these mornings. Then an orderly would settle Stevie in a wheelchair, for by then he was too dizzy to walk, and Al would wheel him out to the 'Vette. He could carry the boy for very short distances, but his shoulder was undeniably painful, and there was no doubt that weight-bearing of any kind aggravated the agony. So he used the chair, when there was no one around but Stevie to see and wonder. They would return to the trailer park in time for Al to lie down in the Calaviccis' big bed with the boy, and they could both catch ninety minutes of sleep before Celestina came home from work. When she arrived, Al would leave for the Project, and the two women would take care of the child.

On chemo days Al didn't arrive at the Starbright compound until four-thirty in the afternoon, and even then only because he had a heavy foot and a sleek car. Four-thirty was still early enough, though, that he could have a full half-hour of griping from the Admin staff before they shipped out for the night. The hours between five and ten were usually occupied with distractions from the 'round-the-clock scientist like Eleese, and the ever popular Colonel Smythe, head of Project security. After ten things fell quiet, and Al could labor over the unending requisitions, rosters and miscellaneous paperwork until he was cross-eyed with exhaustion. Then he would stumble blindly to the elevator and so to his suite upstairs. There he was able to grab a quick nightcap and sometimes a bit of supper before passing out until the alarm sounded at seven. He averaged about three and a quarter hours of sleep on those nights. Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays he woke up at Starbright. On the weekdays he would put in a normal eight-to-seven day (on Saturdays he usually stayed 'til mid-afternoon) before heading home to spend the night with Sharon and starting over with Stevie's chemo in the morning.

Sharon took care of Stevie on Tuesdays and Thursdays, giving him his oral medications, feeding him whatever she could tempt him to eat, and trying to keep him happy. At first this was easy. She would simply set him up with watercolors in a corner of her studio, and go about her painting as usual. It was a nice change of pace: fourteen hours of childcare each week was a different and not especially onerous task.

As the therapy began to take hold, however, Stevie morphed from a happy and ostensibly healthy child into a piteous invalid. His cheeks lost their glow. His eyes grew enormous and glassy. He bruised at the least provocation and was often in pain, and always tired. Tears came easily and often. The nausea got worse, his appetite vanished, and frequently when you could get food into him he just brought it back up. Through no fault of his own, he went from pleasant diversion to difficult and tiresome patient. Sharon hid her frustration with his deterioration beautifully: Stevie didn't know and Celestina, always on the lookout for signs that she and her child were a burden on their kind neighbors, never even noticed. Yet Sharon had to unload on someone, and that someone was Al.

Domestic tranquility was a thing of the past. Now when they saw each other the Calaviccis were either absorbed with the sick child and his stricken mother, or they were arguing. Sharon would tear bloody strips out of Al with her tongue, demanding to know why the hell she had to do this, how much longer it could be expected to go on, and why she, damn it, was always the one stuck doing the nursing!

Al let her rant. In part he did so because he didn't have the energy to stop the tirades. In part he endured it because at least she was good to Stevie and kind to Celestina, so it was only fair that she have someone to bawl out. And in part, he tolerated her ravings because he had discovered that if he picked his moment to cut her off with an impassioned osculation he could turn her energy in other directions. It always proceeded in the same way. He would take hold of her in the midst of an expectoration of rage, kiss her as hard as he could, and pull back just enough that she could fix her velvety green eyes on his, shocked by the unexpected advance. And no matter how many times he tried it, she was surprised. Then they could temporarily forget their problems and get busy with the bingo-bango-bongo.

It happened on that on the fourth Sunday of Stevie's course of treatment that the dynamic in the Calavicci household shifted yet again.

Sharon came home early from her weekly visit to her father. Recently these trips were getting shorter and shorter, and after each one Sharon came home in lower spirits. Al wondered sometimes what was wrong, but he was so bogged down with his own worries and the eternal struggle to make it through one more day without slipping into an enervated coma that he could never pursue it.

Today she came in just as he was toweling Chester down after his bath. Al stiffened, instantly wary of her reaction to this activity. She frowned disapprovingly as she trudged past towards the bedroom.

"Hi!" he called when she was safely out of the way. "Welcome home!"

"Ugh!" she shouted back.

"Stevie's feeling better today," Al said. "We took him down to the park for a while." It had been nice to see him laughing again, sitting in the baby swing and tossing his newly-shorn head in delight. His hair had started coming out in clumps last weekend, and Al had taken him in to have the rest of it cut short. Stevie didn't care, but Al had caught Celestina running her hand over the bristles that had once been soft curls, tears glinting in her eyes. The child had lost ten pounds, and his limbs were like sticks, but the nausea wasn't so bad right now and he could walk on his own, though neither very far nor very fast. If it weren't for the fact that so far there had been no improvement in the test results, Al would have felt almost optimistic.

"Oh, good," Sharon said sarcastically, coming out of the bedroom wrapping her robe around her body.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Al snapped. "If the poor kid can feel better for a while—"

"I'm just sick of it, Al, okay?" she snarled, glaring at him. "I'm sick of it! I'm always stuck looking after the people no one wants to look after, and—"

The intimation that Stevie was in any way unwanted roused anger and banished all recollections of how well the day had been going. Al was weary and he was angry and he was heartsick, and she had no right to talk about Stevie like he was some kind of surplus equipment!

"I want to look after him!" Al cried, erupting. "I'd kill for the chance to stay home with him, but you know what? Someone has to pay the bills! Someone has to cover the rent, buy food and gas, and finance your hobbies!"

He expected her to snap back, but instead she slumped and sighed. "I'm sorry, Al," she said. "I know this has been rough on you. Esteban isn't the problem. It's just… it's hard to see him so sick."

Al let his face melt into a fond smile. "That's my girl," he said, setting down the dog's towel and moving to stroke Sharon's face. She sighed and leaned against him. "I'm sorry," Al whispered.

"It's not your fault," Sharon said. "It's just that I'm feeling old today."

"Old?" Al asked.

"Ancient."

He nibbled her ear a little. "How come?"

She shook her head. "I dunno," she sighed. "I'm gonna be forty-four in a couple days, and—"

"God, I almost forgot!" Al exclaimed. He tried to make it a point never to miss a wife's birthday. It was… not nice. "What do you want for your birthday? Name it, it's yours."

Sharon laughed a little. "Oh, really?" she said skeptically.

"Really," Al promised.

"Well…" she said, kissing him. "You know what I'd really like?"

Al chuckled a little. "Doll, if I knew what you'd really like I wouldn't have to ask," he said.

"In that case… I'd like a bath," Sharon said.

Al frowned in confusion. "A bath?"

Sharon nodded. "You know I haven't had a bath since our honeymoon?"

He laughed. "Do you have any idea how yucky that sounds?" he asked.

"I'm serious!" she said. "I want a nice, long, hot bubble bath! You asked what I really want: that's it."

"A bath?" Al mused. "Hmm. Sounds reasonable. I'll see what I can do."

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

Sounding reasonable and actually being reasonable in practice were very different things, as Al quickly realized. The following morning, Stevie lost consciousness during his chemotherapy and the treatment wasn't concluded until almost five. Al showered with military efficiency and hurried off to Starbright, where he had to deal with the repercussions of turning up two and a half hours later than expected. That was going to set him back for the entire week, and to make matters worse there were concerns about the pass-codes on the four lower levels. After working straight through the night and all day Tuesday, Al was beginning to feel like a character in a fairy tale. He had promised his woman something simple, and now he wasn't going to be able to deliver it without striking a bargain with some kind of beast.

The rest of the week continued in frustration, but Stevie's I.V. therapy went more smoothly on Wednesday, and by Friday it seemed that he would be well enough over the weekend that Celestina wasn't likely to need the help of her neighbors. Al conferred with her at some length on Friday afternoon, and as all seemed to be going well he called up Starbright to say he wouldn't be in today, and started to make the appropriate arrangements.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWMWMWMWMWMWWMWMWMWMWM_

Dan Penvenen hung up the phone, and his brow furrowed in a pensive frown. The work of informing Ms. Pharris and Mr. Prysock that Captain Calavicci would be absent until Monday evening was complete, and now he was free to speculate about the reason for this.

Of late the Captain's schedule was sporadic at best. As far as Dan had been able to gather from his casual inquiries and a brief telephone call with Congressman Davies, Calavicci was keeping up with the necessities of running the project and of communicating with the Committee. However, he was less than accessible to the majority of the staff, and thus failing in that respect to dispatch his duties as Project Administrator. His failure to maintain regular daytime hours was a frustration to many of the department heads—the scientists so fundamental to the nature of the Project. No explanation for this recent change had been offered, either to Human Resources or to the staff. The Administrator was simply making arbitrary changes.

It was unorthodox, inefficient, disturbing and given the delicate nature of Starbright Project, potentially dangerous.

It was unacceptable.


	30. Chapter TwentyNine

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Returning from her three o'clock Friday class ("Charcoal and the Female Libido"), Sharon was surprised to see the Corvette still in the driveway. Stranger yet, it was devoid of tarp. She hurriedly parked the van on the curb and hastened into the house.

Al was in the living room, setting a garment bag on top of the large suitcase. He looked up as she entered and grinned. "Hey, beautiful," he said.

"What's this?" Sharon asked.

"I'm packing," Al said. "I picked out a few things for you, but I figured you'd probably want to choose your own lingerie. You know: surprise me."

"But… where are we going?" she queried, coming further into the room.

"You said you wanted a bath," Al said. "I figured this would be more fun than trying to overhaul that closet we call a bathroom."

Sharon laughed. She hadn't even seen him on her birthday, but he had remembered after all! He was taking her to a motel! "I'll be ready in twenty minutes!" she said blithely, hurrying towards the bedroom.

"Sure. I'm just going to take Chester over to Celestina's," Al said.

Sharon paused and turned. "How's he doing?" she asked softly. She didn't feel she needed to specify whom.

"Better," Al said, but there was pain in his eyes.

"Is it working?" Sharon pressed.

"I don't know." Al turned away from her and whistled for the dog. "Chester! C'mere, boy! Chester!" he called brightly

Sharon watched anxiously as Al gathered up the dog and his supplies, and left the house. She would have to try to cheer him up tonight, she decided. God knew he needed it.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

Twenty-three minutes later they were in the car and heading out of the trailer park. Sharon cuddled close to Al, massaging his stomach fondly. "Where are we going?" she asked.

"That's my surprise," he said with an evasive grin. "Somewhere with a bathtub, I promise."

"Come on!" she wheedled. "You can trust me!"

"Oh, can I?" Al snorted.

"Yes," Sharon told him, affecting indignation. "C'mon, where are we going?"

"Sorry, Mrs. Calavicci, but you don't have clearance to access that information," Al told her.

"Huh?"

"It's top secret," he said smugly.

They were heading out onto the turnpike. Sharon groaned expansively. "You're taking me to the Project?" she asked. "_That's_ your idea of romantic?"

"_Starlight, Starbright_," Al chanted. "_First star I see tonight. Wish I may, wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight_. In your case, a hot bath."

Sharon leaned morosely against her door. "I know what'll happen!" she said, raising her voice to be heard above the wind as the vehicle accelerated. "We'll get there, and some problem will crop up that just_ has_ to be taken care of, and I won't see you again all night!"

"Would you relax?" Al upbraided her. "I've got more class than that."

"Sure, that's what you say _now_, but as soon as someone comes to you with some little issue—"

"No, I mean I've got more class than to take you to work as a birthday treat!" Al exclaimed. "I need a weekend off too, you know!"

"So we're _not_ going to Starbright?" Sharon confirmed.

"_No!_"

"Oh." She settled back against him. "Okay, then."

A full three minutes' silence elapsed.

"So, where are we going?" Sharon asked at last.

Al only laughed.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWMWM_

It didn't take long to deduce that they were headed to Phoenix. Sharon knew this road better than she knew her own kitchen. What she didn't understand was why Al wanted to leave town just to spend the night in a motel. He wasn't giving in to her interrogation, however, and answered each question with good-natured but snarky evasion. After a while, she gave up and sat back to enjoy the ride, the desert wind possessing her hair and the mountains blue and beautiful around her. Al had a tape playing, and she listened with mingled fondness and amusement as he sang along with Dean Martin, his husky voice strong, emphatic, and off-key.

Inevitably, they arrived in Phoenix, and Sharon started trying to scope out the streets and divine where he was taking her. As she grew less and less certain that she had some measure of control over the situation she began to feel rather like a kidnap victim, albeit with a more or less harmless kidnapper.

"You taking me to your home planet, space cadet?" she asked.

Al huffed. "I'll have you know I was a space _commander_," he said indignantly.

"Oh, sorry," she scoffed. "My mistake."

"Yeah, it was."

Sharon giggled and tried to pinch him under his ribs where he carried his minor payload of extra flesh. Her fingers glanced off his skin, coming away only with the cotton of his shirt. She frowned and tried again, but he had lost too much weight and there was no extra flesh to grab.

"Will you cut that out?" Al said. "It tickles."

She laughed. "Oh, you're ticklish, are you?" she said impishly. "That's good to know."

The vehicle stopped and Al switched off the ignition. "And here we are," he said.

Sharon looked up at the impressive façade beside her. "The _Hyatt_?" she squealed.

Al nodded conceitedly. "Two nights." He leaned over and kissed her. "Happy birthday."

She frowned. "Can we afford it?"

"Babe, you can afford anything if you put your mind to it," he said, climbing out of the car and unlocking the trunk for the bellhop. He sauntered around the vehicle, tossed the keys to the valet and opened the door for Sharon, offering her his hand.

She hesitated. "But with—"

Al shook his head resolutely. "We're not going to worry about it," he said. "We're going to have a nice, romantic weekend, Mrs. Calavicci, and that's an order!"

Sharon smiled and let him escort her onto the pavement. He kissed her quickly, passed a bill to the valet, and escorted his wife inside. Check-in went smoothly, and they rode an empty elevator up to their room on the eighth floor. Al opened the door to admit the pimply kid carrying their baggage, then tipped him a five. Sharon gawked.

"Isn't that a little much?" she asked.

"You ever done menial work?" Al challenged, closing the door. "That kid's trying to pay for school or something. Maybe he's got a kid to feed. Besides," he added with a boyish grin, "it makes me feel rich."

Sharon smiled thinly. The thought of a kid that age having a baby to feed made her feel even older, and not a little bit like a failure. Here she was, forty-four and nulliparous, while that bellhop might have a child at home? It was depressing. She rounded the corner into the bathroom and let out an exclamation of anticipatory pleasure.

It was a beautiful sight. Sharon had always considered the bathtub to be a necessity almost equal to the sink and the toilet. She had never rented an apartment without one, and the last months living in that trailer with it's nine square foot shower had definitely been missing one vital element.

"You like it?" Al asked from the other room.

"Oh, yes!" Sharon exclaimed. She started fumbling with her clothes.

"Now, how did I know you were going to do that?" Al asked, coming around the corner.

Sharon whirled around and smiled. "You're welcome to join me," she said. "There's plenty of room for two."

Al shook his head. "You can have this one all to yourself. We'll play fun-in-the-tub later." He held out a little bottle of purple fluid. "Picked this up for you. I didn't know what scent you liked, so I went for color."

It was a vial of lavender bubble bath liquid. Laughing like a little girl, Sharon kissed Al's cheek. "You're going to spoil me," she warned.

"Aw, have your bath already!" Al said, patting her buttocks fondly. He retreated, pulling the door closed behind him.

Sharon ran the tub and put in a generous dollop of the soap, then stripped down and slipped into the heavenly concoction. She exhaled happily as the hot water caressed her, opening every pore and soothing her very soul. Paradise. This was paradise.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

When at last she emerged, warm, wrinkled and delirious with happiness, she found Al asleep on top of the bedclothes. He looked like he had just passed out: he hadn't even bothered to take off his shoes.

"Hey, sailor," Sharon said loudly. He didn't move. "Hey!"

Still no response. She reached out and shook him. He grunted a little, then resumed his quiet snoring. Exasperated, Sharon removed his shoes and began to wrestle him out of his clothes. He didn't resist, and it didn't wake him. She stripped him to his shorts, and he didn't even stir. Folding him under the blankets was a more difficult procedure, and she was certain that her regrettably clumsy treatment would rouse him, but it didn't. He was dead to the world.

Once she had Al settled in bed and it became obvious that he wasn't interested in waking up any time soon, Sharon settled down next to him and turned on the television.

As it turned out, Al slept through the evening, not even waking when Sharon dropped the cover of the room service tray with a cacophonous clang. She ate alone, then got back into bed next to the unconscious body and, after a few more futile attempts at bringing her husband back to the land of the living, resigned herself to an uneventful night. Some romantic evening, she thought wryly as she drifted off to sleep.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

Al managed to smile at the kind-eyed nurse behind the window. She knew him by sight: he was a regular visitor. Every morning he was here, and though he could only stay for an hour, he came back each afternoon. All the nurses knew him, but he didn't know them. There were too many of them, and the only person who mattered in the whole hospital was the one he came to visit.

The corridors were quiet tonight. Al made his way down the long hallway to the stairs that he would take up to the fifth floor. His legs were weary from the long day, and his empty stomach growled, but he was determined, and what he was here to do was more important than any physical discomfort. Clutching the rail for support, he began his ascent.

He had to stop and rest on the first landing, sitting down on the first step of the second flight. He hugged his abdomen, trying to ignore the cramps of hunger. His shoes hurt his feet. You weren't supposed to go barefoot in the hospital, but he'd never manage three more flights of stairs like this. Carefully he loosened the laces and slipped off the constrictive leather sheaths. He rammed one sock into each shoe, then tied the four strings together to make one bundle. He got to his feet, his tired knees shaking. The rail was his lifeline, and he clung to it so that his knuckles grew white.

On the second landing he could hear the sounds of the maternity ward: the laughter of little children visiting new siblings, the lusty cries of healthy babies. Noises of happiness. Noises of families. More tired now than he had been a minute ago, Al tackled the third flight of stairs.

The stairs always seemed steepest here, with his goal not yet in sight and the floor full of joy and new life behind him. Each step required more of his flagging energy, and his head began to feel light. The grip he had to maintain on the railing was becoming painful. He stumbled on the last step and sat again on the third landing, resting his head on his knees. Just a little farther. Just a little farther.

The fourth staircase was easier, for although he was tired and his feet were heavy, his goal was in sight, and that imbued him with a fresh strength. His legs shook and his arms ached, but at last he reached the fifth floor landing and stepped out into the corridor.

It was the second ward that he wanted. The nurse there, too, let him pass without question. She was a good nurse: she took care of the patients and made sure they were as comfortable as they could be. Al had no smile for her. There were never any smiles on the fifth floor.

Skeletal patients occupied sterile white beds. Some were sleeping, some moaning in pain. At one bed a young woman bathed her man's head with a cool cloth. The nurses and the sisters moved among the beds, trying to ease the passing from one world into the next.

Al stopped by the bed he came to every day. Eyelids were lowered over the glassy brown eyes made enormous by the thinness of the invalid's face. Al put out his hand, carefully, wary of waking the sleeper. His fingers closed around the cold hand. The hands were always cold now. Frightened and suddenly very much alone despite the nurses and the other patients, Al drew close to the emaciated form. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to run, but he wouldn't. He couldn't.

He reached out a hand to stroke the poor, shorn head, and suddenly he couldn't remember anymore which one of them was the child, and which the adult. A voice was hissing in his ear, telling him that he had to pray. Al felt a fist of terror closing upon his heart.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

Sharon awoke to a tormented scream. Beside her, Al was thrashing against the mattress, moaning piteously. Heart in her throat, Sharon sat up to see what would happen.

He mumbled something incoherent and rolled away from her. Then there was a sharp snort, and his panicked gasps eased off into shallow panting. Sharon stayed still, petrified with shock, as he sat up, swinging his feet down onto the floor. He scrubbed at his eyes, his bent form silhouetted against the moonlight filtering through the diaphanous draperies. Then he got up and stumbled to the corner where their bags were. There was a groan of a zipper, and then she saw Al grope for one of the water glasses on the desk. With shaking hands he poured a generous helping of liquor from the bottle he had take from the suitcase. He threw back his head as he drained it, then shook his head and made his way, groping, towards the bathroom. The door closed before he turned on the light, and after a minute Sharon could hear the shower running.

She fully intended to stay awake to console him when he was finished. After all, they hadn't even made love once yet on their "romantic weekend"! But the water just kept running, and somehow she found herself growing gradually more and more relaxed. Without meaning to, she fell asleep.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

Al tipped the room-service waiter and closed the door. Sharon was still asleep, but it was ten-thirty in the morning, and if she didn't wake up the food would be cold. Al set the tray carefully on the bedside table and climbed back between the sheets. He curled an arm around her baby-doll-encircled waist and started to kiss her, rapidly, up and down her neck.

With a soft sigh of pleasure she rolled towards him and her arms found their way around his neck. "Mmm," she sighed. "What time is it?"

"Breakfast time!" Al said. Sharon opened her eyes and sat up, looking exactly like a delighted princess. This had been a good idea, Al realized as he brought the tray onto the bed.

They ate then made a little mad, passionate love. Then Sharon insisted they go for a bath together, which wound up being an exercise in more mad, passionate love. Then Al went out for some ice and chilled the bottle of Chianti he had brought along with his whiskey, and they enjoyed some of that before making even more mad, passionate love. It was a great afternoon.

Al wanted it to continue seamlessly into a great evening, but Sharon felt that they should go out for dinner. Eventually Al consented, his one stipulation being that "out" mean "out of the room". Laughing and calling him all sorts of names like "recluse" and "hermit crab", Sharon agreed that they could eat at the hotel restaurant.

It was a beautiful establishment, set atop the hotel. It had enormous windows, and rotated slowly, so that the view was a gradual panorama of Phoenix, stained red by the desert sunset. They lingered, laughing, over their cocktails until the appetizer arrived. They were both ravenous, and the stuffed mushrooms disappeared swiftly

Steak and shrimp was the house specialty, and the entrée of choice for both Calaviccis. It arrived beautifully arranged on delicate dishes, garnished with care and groomed to be in every way as appetizing as possible.

Al realized as soon as he smelled the shrimp that it had been a mistake to order them. He was in a flashback state of mind. Nevertheless, he took up one of the little crustaceans and bit into it. The taste like that of raw fish was almost unbearable. Casually, he reached for his wine and washed the unpleasant flavor away. Working surreptitiously with his fork, Al covered the creature's little friends with his mashed potatoes, hiding them from sight and smothering the smell. A couple forkfuls of mixed vegetables dispersed the lingering aftertaste.

He was still hungry, though, and turned his attention on the steak. It, unlike the shrimp, smelled absolutely heavenly. It was tender and moist-looking, done medium-rare, just as he liked it. Biting his lip briefly in anticipation, Al held his fork in his left hand and started to saw at his meat with his right. As he applied a little more pressure with the fork, his shoulder spasmed and he let both utensils fall with a gasp of pain.

Sharon looked up from her wine with concern. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing," Al said, trying to beat back the flush of embarrassment that assailed him. "Nothing at all." He reached for his own glass, took a sip, and then tried again. This time he couldn't even lift the fork far enough to place it in the meat.

"That's not true," Sharon said, her eyes glinting with fierce intelligence. "Your shoulder's bothering you again, isn't it? That's why you haven't touched your steak: you can't cut it!"

Her voice was too loud. Al was certain the other diners could hear, and his sense of shame heightened. It didn't help that the words were true. He couldn't cut it, and he was absolutely famished. He wasn't about to ask for help, though, as if he was a little kid or an invalid incapable of feeding himself. "Don't be silly," he growled, reaching for the utensils again.

This time the pain was sufficient to raise a gasp of discomfort, and the cutlery clattered against the plate.

"I told you!" Sharon cried. "I told you you should see a doctor about that arm! Do you need to go to the hospital?"

"_No_!" Al hissed through clenched teeth. He couldn't believe this was happening. The muscles were probably seizing up after the afternoon's exercise. The pain was intense now, and getting worse by the second. He had to relax. Tensing up like this only made it worse. He extended his shaking right hand and lifted his glass to his lips. The wine cooled his throat and did something to calm the rising panic.

Sharon was on her feet now, rounding the table to take hold of his arm. "Where does it hurt?" she asked.

"Stop it!" Al muttered under his breath. "Stop it and sit down!"

"Damn you, Calavicci, I'm trying to help!" she cried.

"Well, you're not helping!" Al snapped. "Just sit down so I can finish my meal. I'm starving!"

"I'll bet you are!" she bit back. "It's the first decent food you've had in weeks! I warned you that you had to start taking better care of yourself, and now—"

"Stop it!" Al cried. "Knock it off! I don't need you treating me like a kid. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, you know!"

He tried not to care that they were garnering the attention of the other patrons of the restaurant. He wouldn't really have cared, had they been talking about anything other than his health. He had spent the last nine years trying to quash the notion that he was a delicate invalid needing special care and consideration, and he didn't want any more people to know about his problems. Far, far too many were aware of them as it was.

"Take care of yourself?" Sharon exclaimed. "You can't even cut your own steak!"

She sat in indignation and snatched up his plate. Pushing her own out of the way she attacked his meat with her own utensils, making short work of demolishing it into tiny cubes. "There!" she cried. "Now eat it before I start force-feeding you!"

Al stared at the mound of brown debris, tiny pieces such as one would provide a toddler—or repatriated MIA—who was ill-equipped to chew, swallow and digest larger ones properly. His cheeks burning with humiliation, he forced himself to choke them down while Sharon watched with proprietary and vaguely maternal approval.


	31. Chapter Thirty

CHAPTER THIRTY

Some romantic weekend, Al thought morosely, clutching his left arm tight against his chest. It helped the pain in his shoulder. Always had. As soon as you could get close enough to another American that he could snap the ball into the socket again, the makeshift splint of your corrugated ribs became your best friend.

All the way back from the restaurant to the room, Sharon had nagged him about his arm. She was furious, apparently convinced that his pain was the result of some flesh-eating disease or something. She had even threatened to hog-tie him with the drapery cords from the room and haul him forcibly to the nearest hospital—a menace she couldn't possibly understand the horrifically negative connotations of. Al, still suffering pangs of agony from the joint, had been too nauseated with mortification and reminders of the months of helplessness at the hands of paternalistic and sometimes domineering nurses to do more than mutter at her to stop it. Back in the room, romance was out of the question. For the first time in years Al hadn't felt physically capable of the act of making love: his shoulder just wasn't up to any kind of strenuous physical activity. They might have indulged in other, less energetic means of showing affection, but Sharon was still railing angrily, and Al was too tired and heartsick to calm her. She had stormed off to have another bath, and Al had wearily undressed and crawled into bed. Almost as soon as his head hit the pillow he was lost to the world.

Morning had brought yet another bath. Al was starting to wonder if he'd married a mermaid or something. Then they checked out, and found a Denny's for breakfast. Al had ordered an omelet, not because it was something he wanted or something, like waffles, that he couldn't get at home, but because he could cut it with the side of his fork. Sharon had watched every bite like a hawk, even going so far as to nag him into forcing down the last two forkfuls of cold hashbrowns.

Now, at one in the afternoon, Al was standing near an adobe fountain, supporting his hurting limb as casually as he could. He watched Sharon fussing over someone who, for once, wasn't him.

"Daddy, are you getting cold? It's chilly out here today," she said, adjusting the old man's scarf.

Pat looked around. "Summertime," he said. "No snow anywhere."

"It's Arizona, Dad," Sharon said, her voice breaking a little. "There's never snow here."

The old man shook his head. "Snow," he repeated.

Al looked around, seeking a more cheerful scene. Over by a rose bush, and old woman was struggling with her walker, each step excruciatingly slow. She looked like one good wind would shatter her like a china doll. A nurse was wheeling another patron out into the sunlight. A girl who couldn't have been more than fifteen or sixteen sat on a bench next to a white-haired lady who had to be her grandmother. The older woman was chattering happily to a plump baby boy perched on the child's knee. The kid holding the kid looked worn and exhausted, and her clothes had an undeniably second-hand caste. Al realized the baby was probably hers. All-in-all, he reflected as he looked back at Sharon, maybe theirs _was_ the happiest party.

After a while Sharon decided that it was too cold for her father outside, and they returned to the building. Al had to endure the same humiliating parade that had marked their exit: Sharon forcefully pushing the wheelchair, upbraiding him for his offer to take over that duty and demanding to know when he was going to see a doctor.

Al ignored her, and tried to strike up a conversation with Pat. It wasn't easy. Sharon had alluded to bad days in the past, and Al realized that this had to be one. The old man's words rambled aimlessly, drifting in and out of subjects ranging from books to the weather to the color of the woolen lap-robe tucked around his legs.

Back in the room, Sharon wheeled Pat close to the bed and tried to set up a game of rummy, Al in the armchair and herself on the mattress. It was useless. No sooner had the hand been dealt than Pat set down his cards so that their identities could be seen. He picked up three of his face cards.

"_The Queen of Hearts_," he said; "_She made some tarts, All on a summer's day_." He picked up the jack. "_The Knave of Hearts, He took those tarts, And stole them clean away_." The King wasn't of the same suit, but that didn't phase Mr. Quinn. "_The King of Spades Called for the tarts, And beat the Knave full sore. The Knave of Hearts Brought back the tarts, And vowed he'd steal no more._"

"Daddy," Sharon chided softly, "_spades_ doesn't rhyme with _tarts_."

"I know that, you silly girl!" Pat snapped. "I haven't got the King of Hearts, have I? No! I've got Spades! So there!"

Sharon managed a tiny smile. "Okay, Daddy," she whispered.

Pat turned to his son-in-law. "Who are you?" he asked. "Where's that no-good Kraut?"

"I divorced Heinrich, Daddy, remember?" Sharon said.

"Of course I remember!" he bit back. "I'm not stupid! And I'm talking to this young fellow. Go see if your mother needs any help."

Sharon's throat palpitated and she got to her feet, rubbing her hand along her father's shoulder. "I'm just… just going to go talk to the nurses, okay, Al?" she murmured.

"Sure thing," Al said. Suddenly he wasn't feeling quite so angry at her. She fled the room, closing the door carefully behind her. Al smiled at the old man. "I'm Al," he said.

"Al?" Pat echoed. "I knew an Al once. Pilot. They shot him down. Never heard from him again. Al…"

"Yes, sir," Al confirmed.

"Mary said… Mary said…" Pat looked around in confusion. "Where's Mary?" he asked.

Al paused, thinking carefully about his answer. Sharon and the rest of the family seemed to prefer to pretend that Mary was alive. This went against his instincts, but was it really his choice to make?

"She's… she's not here," he said.

"I know," Pat said softly. "I know. She's gone away, hasn't she?"

Al nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, she's gone away."

Pat was silent for a long minute. "Sometimes…" he began, then trailed off again.

"Sometimes?" Al prompted gently.

"Sometimes, Al," Pat said.

Again silence elapsed.

"Sometimes…"

He seemed to be struggling very hard to say something. Instinctively, Al reached out and took the withered hand in his own. Pat looked up, and there were tears in his eyes.

"Sometimes I think… I think she's never… never coming back," he whispered.

Al swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. He couldn't help it. He thought of Beth.

"I know," he breathed. "I know. It hurts."

Pat nodded, gripping Al's hand with all his strength. His lips pressed together, vanishing briefly as he blinked away the moisture threatening to fall.

He leaned forward. "Al," he hissed. "Al, don't tell Sharon."

"No," Al choked out. "No. I won't tell Sharon."

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

Neither of them spoke during the long ride home. Al didn't even have the spirit to sing along with the tape. He drove one-handed, but Sharon didn't seem to notice. She was staring at her reflection in the passenger side mirror.

She went inside without a word, and Al covered the car before making his way up the street to collect Chester. There was a battered station wagon parked in front of the Penjas' trailer. Looked like Uncle Juan was back in town.

The screen door was open, and Celestina saw Al even before he drew near enough to knock. She was sitting on one of her rickety aluminum chairs next to the shelf-bed, the candlelight imparting an almost angelic glow on her face. Al opened the door and entered the small room.

The massive bricklayer was sitting at the table, nursing a mug of vegetable soup, but Al hardly noticed him. His attention was focused on the bed.

Stevie lay curled up against the wall of the trailer, the blankets gathered around him like a soft, warm nest. He was wearing the space ship pajamas that Sharon had bought him during his first stay in the hospital. He was fast asleep, his pale little face free from pain and exhaustion, the dark shadows beneath his eyes scarcely visible. Only the bony collarbone showing through the neck-hole of the pajama top betrayed the weight he had lost over the last month. He looked like an angel, but an angel with clipped wings and a close-cropped head of hair interspersed with bald patches. Chester, a little ball of ruddy fur, was lying within the circle of one matchstick arm, slumbering as peacefully as the boy.

Celestina looked up, her eyes moist and her lips curled into a smile. Al felt his throat constricting. There was so much love in those eyes: love for the child, for the dog, for the serenity of the night. Just for a moment, he let himself believe that maybe he was the recipient of some small part of that abundance of love.

Then he came back to reality and squatted next to the bed, observing Stevie from another angle. "How's he been?" he asked, his voice low.

"Well," Celestina said. "Today he eat all of his soup, play for an hour in the yard. He feels better, I think. He will be well."

"I hope so," Al said.

Celestina turned and reached out a hand to grip her brother-in-law's arm. "And see," she said. "Juan has found work here, in the city! He will stay with us until they are finished! They are building a big building."

"Yeah?" Al said. "That's great!"

"New branch for the library," Juan said. "I'll be around for a couple months, at least."

"It is good," Celestina said. "It is very good."

"Yeah, it is," Al agreed. He looked around the tiny trailer. "Where are you sleeping?" he queried delicately.

"Back of the wagon," Juan said. "Always do."

Al thought about the vehicle, crowded with all the man's worldly possessions. He shook his head. "No need for that," he said. "You can stay at our place; crash on the sofa."

Juan chuckled. "Naw, that ain't necessary."

"I insist," Al said. "It's been chilly lately. He should stay at our place, right, Celestina?"

"Sí, yes," Celestina affirmed. "Senor Calavicci good friend, Juan."

"Yeah, I know that," the Mexican laborer said. "But he's already done a lot, you know. Paying for Stevie's operation and stuff. I don't wanna make more work."

"It's not work," Al laughed. "I'm offering you a bed—er, a sofa—not a full-service, five-star hotel! C'mon!"

Juan frowned. "Shouldn't you talk it over with your wife?" he asked.

"Naw, she won't mind!" Al said blithely.

MWMWMMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

As a matter of fact, Sharon _did_ mind, very much. She didn't let on right away, but welcomed Juan warmly, offering him a drink and making him comfortable in the living room. She seemed a bit on the frosty side that night, but Al was too sore and tired for sex anyway, and fell swiftly asleep. It wasn't until the following afternoon, when Al came back from the hospital, that she erupted.

Even then she waited while Al coaxed the dizzy and nauseated child onto his feet and induced him to walk from the 'Vette to the bed. Al didn't think he could manage to carry him: his arm was still sore, and movement of any kind was starting to be a harbinger of agony. Sharon waited while Al helped Stevie out of his clothes and into his pajamas, and settled him in for his nap. She leaned on the doorjamb while Al sang the child to sleep. It wasn't until he was about to undress himself and try to snatch a nap before he had to head off to Starbright that she cleared her throat.

"Can I have a word?" she asked unctuously when Al turned to look at her.

"Shoot," he whispered back, starting on his shirt buttons.

"In the kitchen," Sharon mouthed. Al shrugged and slipped past her. She drew the bedroom door carefully closed.

"How long is he staying?" she demanded as they moved past the table and as physically far from the sleeping child as they could get without actually climbing _into_ the washing machine.

"Till Celestina's home from work, same as always," Al said, not catching it.

"Not Esteban!" Sharon snapped. "His uncle!"

"Juan? As long as he needs to," Al said. "He found work in town so he could be close for Celestina and Stevi—"

"So let him stay with her!" Sharon cried. "Why is he sleeping on _my_ sofa?"

"Celestina hasn't got room for a houseguest!" Al exclaimed. "He was gonna sleep in the back of his car!"

"So? Why can't he do that?"

Al shuddered. Obviously Sharon had never had to live in a tiny, cramped space without temperature control. "Because he shouldn't have to! He's not hurting anything: he won't be any trouble."

"Sure, maybe not for you!" Sharon shouted. "You're never home! But I'm going to be the one feeding him, accommodating him and cleaning up after him—"

Al let out a loud, barking laugh at that one. "Cleaning up after him?" he mocked. "You haven't even learned the fine art of putting your underwear in the washing machine! You can't clean up after _yourself_, let alone—"

"You're missing the point, Al! I don't want that Mexican gorilla staying in my house!"

"_Your_ house?" Al shrieked. "Who pays the rent, that's what I want to know!"

"_VISA_ does!" Sharon cried.

That stopped the argument dead. Al gaped, his jaw working soundlessly. He had had no idea she'd been following his finances, his progressively more creative triaging of the bills, like his second wife's alimony, that _had_ to be paid out-of-pocket; those like Stevie's hospital charges that _should_ come from the bank; those that _could_ go on credit, like rent, utilities and groceries; and those like the two hundred bucks a month he had been habitually sending Ruthie, that didn't _actually_ have to be paid.

"Uh-huh," Sharon said, after a minute or two of his guppy-like silence. "Exactly."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Al wailed in frustration, recovering his wits. "It's my credit, too, and anyway, what was I supposed to do? Let the man sleep in his car?"

"He didn't seem to have any problem with it before!" Sharon cried. "Anyway, it's not the point! You should have consulted me! We should have discussed it! You don't just come home with a permanent houseguest without talking to your wife first! If you're going to act like my father, what's the point of me being your wife?"

"Oh, look who's talking!" Al exclaimed. "Who's been mothering me?"

"I have not!" Sharon protested.

"Yes, you have! Nagging me about when I sleep and what I eat, pestering me to go to the doctor—damn it, you cut my food!"

"You couldn't cut it yourself!" Sharon cried.

"You didn't let me try!" Al bit back lamely. He wasn't sure what he was thinking or feeling anymore, but the room felt cold and desolate, and he wondered if there would ever be any comfort in the world again.

Sharon made a sound of disgust. "I give up," she said. "Just don't expect me to turn into this man's house_frau_!"

She began to stomp away towards her studio, and then turned around and stomped back.

"I almost forgot!" she snarled, picking up a large manila envelope from the table and thrusting it at Al's chest. "That came in the mail this morning. It looks important!"

So saying, she disappeared into her sanctum, slamming the door so hard that the whole trailer shook.

Al stood for a moment, immobilized and shell-shocked. Then he drew his hand away from his ribs, letting the envelope fall into it. He looked down at the prepaid postage imprint overlaid with the postmark, and his eyes moved to the typed address line proclaiming the parcel to be the rightful property and lawful burden of _A.M. Calavicci, Captain, USN_. Then his gaze drifted up to the return address corner and the official-looking crest embossed there.

His stomach fell down towards his knees and his throat went dry with dread. He knew what it was. Closing his eyes against the waves of nausea churning up his thighs and into his ribcage, Al set the envelope face down next to the coffee maker. Later. He couldn't stand to open it now.

"Chester!" he called, trying to make his hoarse voice pleasant and inviting. "Chester, c'mere boy! Let's go for a walk!"

The perky little dog sprung off of the armchair and trotted towards him, tail wagging wildly and eyes glittering with delirious delight.


	32. Chapter ThirtyOne

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

It stood like an avenging demon on top of the spice rack, daring him to throw it out unread. Daring him to leave it there until it collected cobwebs and turned yellow and disintegrated. Daring him (and this was worst of all) to take it down and confirm that it held what he knew it did.

By the following Thursday night it wasn't feasible to procrastinate any longer. Juan was over at Celestina's, Sharon was working in her studio, and things were as private as they were going to get. Al set up his workspace carefully: a clean glass, a tray of ice cubes, well-aged whiskey (still important enough to make the list of necessary purchases), a good pen, an HB pencil with a point that could have been used on a hypodermic syringe, and Chester, for moral support.

Last of all, he took the envelope from its perch and sat down at the table. He pressed the whiskey bottle between his knees, such tasks being a torment for his left arm now, and screwed off the cap. He poured himself a glassful over some ice, and took two sharp swallows. Then he leaned over and lifted the dog, rather awkwardly with only one hand, into his lap. Chester could sense his master's dread, and it agitated him. A few good pets settled him, though, and he curled against Al's carefully furled left arm. Then, pressing the envelope against the table with his thumb, Al used his right fingers to tear open the flap. He carefully withdrew the thick stack of papers, pushed the envelope away, and started on the cover letter. He read the neatly typewritten text:

_Notice to A.M. Calavicci, Captain, USN, 382 11 5693_

_You are hereby ordered to report to Balboa Naval Hospital, San Diego, CA, on 5th April, 1982 for your annual physical and psychological assessment. As in previous years, preliminary paperwork is required to facilitate your admission and evaluation. Complete all enclosed forms to the best of your ability, with full detail, candor and honesty as becomes an officer. Any errors must be corrected upon arrival at Balboa Naval Hospital. You are reminded that deliberate omissions will be considered grounds for disciplinary action._

_Your assessment is expected to conclude 8th April, 1982. Included is the appropriate Temporary Duty Assignment requisition form to be provided to your immediate superior, if any._

_Yours in solidarity,_

_Vice Admiral Adrian D. Featherstone, M.D._

Al sighed and scrubbed his forehead. _Grounds for disciplinary action_? That hadn't been in last year's letter. Maybe they were getting sick of him. Not sick enough to leave him alone, obviously. Experience had taught him that he would only make trouble for himself and prolong the ordeal by resisting, so he turned to the first sheet, a summary of his health over the past year. That was straightforward enough, and quickly dispatched. Next was the psychological pre-test, full of absurd questions that had to be answered on a bubble-sheet for electronic processing.

"_For statements 17 to 39_," Al read aloud to Chester; "_follow this format: a) strongly agree, b) agree, c) no opinion, d) disagree, e) strongly disagree, f) not applicable._"

He stared at the first statement for a moment before deciding that this, too, was something the dog needed to hear.

"_Loud noises produce strong feelings of anger_," he said, rolling his eyes heavenwards. "Oi veh."

Two hundred and six questions later, Al was seeing stars, which was probably not exclusively due to the inane nature of the questions, since he was halfway through the whiskey. The questions were dull, ridiculous and repetitive. There were several different versions of each inquiry, worded differently to trap you in the psychiatrists' devious webs. Al had filled out so many of these damned preliminaries over the years that he was resigned to getting caught, so he filled it out as quickly as possible and moved on to the written work.

By the time he was finally finished, Juan was back from Celestina's. He greeted Al respectfully and disappeared into the bathroom for a three-minute shower that would have been a credit to a Naval plebe. Al bade him goodnight and made his way to the bedroom as Juan settled on the sofa. Al changed into his pajamas and lay back with Wuthering Heights. He had been trying to read it for six and a half months, and was still only on the fourth chapter.

"Interesting choice of literature," came a sultry voice from the door. There stood Sharon, fresh from the shower with her hair clinging damply to her shoulders and her nightie performing a similar function on her curves. "This mean you're in a romantic mood?"

She entered the room and closed the door. Al watched her approach. She crawled onto the foot of the bed and began to creep forward. Chester, settled on his master's lap, watched this curious behavior with interest. Al closed the book and set it aside. Finally, after ten days of the cold-shoulder treatment, Sharon was ready to make peace.

"Maybe," he said, leaning forward to kiss her. She stroked his cheek and started to unbutton his pajama shirt.

"Good," she said. " 'Cause I know I am."

She kissed him again, and Al found himself responding instinctively. A sudden realization gave him pause, however. He pulled back.

"Your arm again?" Sharon cried angrily. "_When_ are you going to see a doctor?"

"The fifth of April," Al admitted grimly.

Sharon stared. "What?"

"The fifth of April," Al repeated. "I have to go to San Diego for my annual overhaul."

"For the Navy? And they'll fix your shoulder?" Sharon asked.

Al nodded. "For the Navy. All of us poor suckers who came home in '73 have to go in for a total working over." He shuddered at the thought. "Three days of tests. I'll let the docs know about my shoulder, I promise." They'd notice anyway, he knew. They were so thorough that he was pretty sure the thousands of forms they filled out included at least one count of your nose-hairs.

"Well, good," Sharon said, settling down considerably. "And they'll fix it?"

"Babe, even if it _ain't _broke they fix it," Al said.

"I don't think it's broke, but it is hurting you," Sharon said. "We can always do _something else_ if you don't want to go for the good old-fashioned roll in the hay."

Al shook his head. "That's not the problem," he said. "We shouldn't… _you know_ when we've got a guest."

Sharon's expression froze. "You mean you don't want to make love because of Juan Penja?" she said frostily.

"Well, sometimes it gets noisy, and—"

"God, you make me sick!" Sharon exclaimed. "First you tell me I have to play gracious hostess to that baboon, and then you say I can't even get it on 'cause you're _shy_?"

"Yes—no!" Al exclaimed. "No! I'm not shy! It's just that…well…er…"

"Forget it!" Sharon cried, flopping down on her pillow and hauling the blankets wrathfully over her hip. "Just forget it! Right now I wouldn't sleep with you if you were the last man on earth!"

Al tried to placate her with a gentle touch. "Baby…" he wheedled.

"Shut up!" she barked.

Depressed, Al put down his book and switched off the light, cuddling Chester close to his body.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

Friday was Stevie's last day of chemo. He was discharged from the cancer clinic by Doctor Ananda, who was all smiles and friendly words. He would have to come back in two week's time for tests, at which time they would reevaluate his therapy and look into the next step.

Al wanted to take Stevie out for a treat, but though it was the last day he had still had four hours of chemotherapy, and the poor little guy wasn't feeling up to anything. So they went straight home and curled up together in Al's bed. Sharon was out, having left early for her class. Al slept gratefully until three, when he turned the boy over to his mother, who was absolutely convinced that today was the last day of her child's illness and that the miracles for which she had been praying so diligently since Christmas were finally going to come to pass.

At Starbright Al began to prepare things for his upcoming absence. Being the most senior officer, Al had no need for the TDY papers. He merely informed Prysock and Eulalie that he would be gone for four days on a medical matter, and that anything that needed doing would have to be done ahead of time. A niggling little voice in the back of his head told him it wouldn't hurt to leave a copy of the official orders on file in H.R., but he ignored it. He didn't have time for stupid details like that.

Sharon was definitely mad. After Thursday's fiasco she ignored him as thoroughly as she could. The only reason they were still sleeping in the same bed was that for some reason Sharon saw the need to preserve, at all costs, the illusion of a happy household. God forbid Juan think they were human or something.

Actually, if Al were being truthful, he would have admitted that he didn't want to make a scene either. There was one thing he couldn't stand, and that was being made a spectacle of—at least, on any terms but his own.

That was, however, precisely what was going to happen, continuously, for three days.

MWMWMWMWMMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

He reported as ordered to the in-patient desk at Balboa. The nurse showed him to an examining room, where he was given a back-fastening gown and told to remove his clothes and other personal possessions. These were placed in a cardboard file box, since in theory he wouldn't be needing shoes, underwear or money until he was discharged. In reality, Al suspected it was to keep him from running. The development had been introduced at his fifth such session, that one held at Bethesda in Maryland. Prior to that he'd had a history of vanishing on an Unauthorized Absense after hours and coming back wasted.

He hated it. Removing his clothes piece by piece and replacing them with the meager cotton smock was degrading. It was too much like other times… times when he hadn't been doing the stripping himself.

The nurse returned and took the box away, and then Al knew he was trapped. Unless he was going to run off with his tushy in the breeze, he would be stuck here until these sadists who styled themselves physicians decided that he could go. Uncomfortable and a little chilly in the air-conditioned room, Al perched on the table and waited for the quack who would be coordinating his tune-up.

In the first three hours they took blood and urine samples, swabbed his throat and ears, measured his blood pressure and his heart rate, noted height, weight, and waist circumference, hooked him up to a peak flow meter and subjected him to a palpitation exam. These were all things that every officer had to endure at least once a year, and although it wasn't fun, at least it didn't make him feel like the frog in Bio 101… or the rat in the proverbial maze.

After all that it was lunchtime, and Al was faced with one of the least pleasant aspects of these excursions. Balboa had the best hospital food in the Navy, but it was still hospital food, and it was also military. Al knew from the cheerful place card on his tray that the meal was a perfectly balanced one, incorporating elements from all four food groups in an ideal ratio of carbohydrates, proteins and lipids and carefully selected to provide optimal levels of vitamins and minerals. His eyes, nose and taste buds, however, told him he was eating grayish pork that had been seasoned with wheat flour, lumpy potatoes, vegetables that had been vacuum sealed and frozen about the time President Truman was writing his inaugural speech, and a "mystery dessert" that looked like a car wreck involving a discount fruit stand and a bus full of refugees from Candyland. There was also, he noticed with a shiver of revulsion, six ounces of Ensure meal replacement. That meant he hadn't made minimum weight.

Because he knew it would cause nothing but hassles, Al forced down everything. Even the Ensure, which was the most horrifically cloying thing he'd ever tasted, and brought back some really diabolical memories of the happy days of repatriation. Then he helped himself to the examining room sink, imbibing more water than he had all month in an attempt to rehydrate his mouth after its sugar desiccation. The nurse, who was older than _he_ was and way too condescending, came back to tell him that he was a good boy for eating up all of his dinner, and the doctor would be with him shortly.

Al muttered something about how he could hardly wait, and sat back down on the examination table, bare legs swinging and shoulder throbbing.

The doctor arrived as promised, and Al noted with a flash of amusement that _shortly_ was a very apt description. He was about five foot two, with his black hair neatly crew-cut, and his horn-rimmed glasses emphasizing both the shape and color of his eyes excruciatingly. Al just about burst out laughing when he introduced himself.

"I'm Commander Paul Nyugen," he said. "Pleased to meet you, Captain."

"Pleasure," Al said, extending his hand. "You'll excuse me if I don't bow, but my assets are kind of hanging out."

"Yes, hospital gowns aren't the most comfortable things," the physician allowed. "It's only for a couple days."

"Easy for you to say," Al muttered. The morning's activities had not made him feel at all positive about the ordeal ahead. And when they found out about his shoulder, well, there was going to be hell to pay.

"Now, I've had a chance to look at your results, but I'd like to talk a little about your health first," Nyugen said, pulling up a stool and mounting it with some difficulty. Al wondered inanely whether admission standards for the medical core were—literally!—dropping. "How are you feeling?"

"Irritated, cold and half-naked," Al quipped.

"Are you cold all the time?" the doctor asked, completely unphased.

"No," Al said. "Just when I'm wearing a pillowcase."

"Any other unusual symptoms? Tremors? Pains?"

"Yeah, now that you mention it," Al said. "I _have_ got a pain."

"Indeed? How severe?"

"Really, really severe," Al told him earnestly. "Excruciating. It's a pain in the neck."

"In your neck?" Nyugen leaned forward anxiously, peering at Al's throat. "Can you show me where?"

Al pointed at the doctor. "Right there," he said.

He expected a dignified fluttering of the eyelashes or a sarcastic remark. Instead, the commander laughed uproariously. "That's a good one, Captain!" he exclaimed. "You got me! But in all seriousness, any physical discomfort?"

Al sighed, defeated by the man's sense of humor and refusal to take himself too seriously. "Yeah," he muttered. "Yeah, my left shoulder hurts like hell."

MWMWMWMWMWMMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM

As he knew they would, the hospital staff launched into action with the same grim efficiency with which the German war machine had rolled over Europe during Al's childhood. He was whisked off for x-rays, which turned into a full-body excursion, just as long as they had him on the table. From there he went to ultrasound, and then to a lab where a gorgeous young technician inserted a very long, nasty-looking needle into the joint and drew out some fluid. Then a orthopedist showed up and started to manipulate the joint.

Al gritted his teeth and tried to control himself. His arm was lifted in front of him and straightened, then rotated slowly up, down and around. The pain was unbelievable. It always amazed him how much pain they could cause just by moving your arm in directions it didn't want to go. The bones seemed to grind together, and the agony grew. A couple sharp jerks, and a scream tore itself unwillingly from his throat.

The nurse dropped his chart with a cacophonous clang, staring at him in horror. The surgeon, a stout middle-aged man whom Al remembered from his days of re-breaking old injuries, seemed largely unphased. He eased the arm back down, and Al held it tightly to his chest.

"I'm sorry to hurt you, Captain," he said. "That shoulder is a mess. How many times have you dislocated it?"

"Two or three hundred?" Al tried. The skeptical look told him that wasn't an acceptable answer, but it was the only one he had. "Hell, Doc, I don't know," he said. "Over six years? I kinda lost track of things like that."

The physician nodded. "I'll have to take a closer look at the x-rays, but it sees to me like we've got at least three problems here. There's some pretty serious calcification on the ligaments, at least two muscles in the rotator cuff are torn, and you've got a pectoral hernia, right here."

He poked a painful lump in Al's armpit, eliciting an angry hiss of suffering.

"I'd say you've been lifting things you shouldn't," the specialist observed.

"What if I have?" Al asked defensively. He wished he could relax, but the fact of the matter was that he was going to be on the defensive from here on in, so he might as well get used to it.

"You're right, it's none of my business. Just as long as you know that the reason you're in this kind of shape is because you neglected to get the proper care when this problem surfaced."

"I dunno," Al said. "I was thinking maybe it has something to do with the extra-special V.I.P. treatment I received at a little resort outside of Cham Hoi."

"That's a pre-existing condition that should have warned you that extra care was necessary," the orthopedist told him. "You brought this on yourself."

Al couldn't argue with that one. Who had volunteered for that second tour, anyway?

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMW 

The really good thing about the fuss over his arm was that his preliminary psyche evaluation was delayed. He wouldn't have to submit to the brain-sucking monsters until tomorrow. After a few more tests Al was forced to cope with hospital supper, noting with dismay that his Ensure ration had been upped four ounces. Then he was shown to a ward full of former POWs, all here for the same purpose, and left to fend for himself.

It wasn't so bad. There was talking and laughing and a bit of commiserating about their treatment at the hands of the Balboa staff. Nobody talked about the war, of course. They were all having to relive it with the shrinks, and during down time it was better to think of other things.

The camaraderie here was just as life-giving as it had been in Vietnam. When the world was against you and you had no power over your surroundings, there was nothing more heartening than being surrounded by a crowd of guys in the same boat. Whether you were wearing filthy Ho Chi Mihn pajamas or a hospital gown and coarse terrycloth bathrobe, you didn't mind your state of undress so much when everyone else was wearing the same thing. The laughter, the wisecracks, and the poker played for ice cubes made for an almost pleasant evening.

It was only when the nurse came in to order everyone into bed and silence fell that Al began to realize that there was a problem. They had confiscated his flask along with his other possessions, and he didn't have anything to use as a nightcap. Terror gripped him as he lay in the dark, listening to the snores of the other eleven men in the room.

Knowing what would come if he surrendered to his weariness, Al tried desperately not to fall asleep. It was a losing battle, however, and his exhausted body gave in all too easily.


	33. Chapter ThirtyTwo

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Quon had had enough. The prisoner would talk. This time, the prisoner would talk.

His back was raw and bloody, but as usual a simple flogging had not been enough. More creativity was needed, and Quon had some of the most imaginative minds in the Viet Cong at his disposal. He watched with grim satisfaction as these geniuses of misery went about their horrific work.

They put his arms in the manacles, the two thin W-shaped pieces that sandwiched the wrists, hinged on one side and locked on the other. For a minute, he had to struggle to keep his elbows as close together as he could, because if you didn't the narrow edge of the metal cut into your wrists and they'd fester. It was easier when they put them on with your hands in front of you, but he hadn't been lucky enough to have that happen since the early days at the Hilton. Today was no exception.

They didn't leave him to struggle long, however. Charlie was like that. Always ready to help you out. A noose of thin rope was slipped over his hands and up his arms. When it was snug enough that it wouldn't slip down, they threw the other end over the gallows and three guards hauled on it. The captive was hauled off the ground by his elbows, and the noose pulled tight. Even his scant weight when thrust upon the slipknot had more power to tighten it than human hands could have. The anguish was incredible already, and it had only just begun.

While he hanged there they stripped off his filthy pants and ragged shorts, depriving him of every shred of dignity. Then it was time to take a little coffee break from creative cruelty, so they beat his legs with switches cut of green bamboo for a while. He scarcely felt the blows because each one had him swinging like a piñata, and every time he swung the rope suspending him grew tighter and tighter. He could feel the blood pooling in his fingers, then in his hands. His wrists began to swell against their metal restraints, and eventually the skin broke and some of the pressure was relieved as the dark carmine fluid oozed over the shackles.

Break-time was over, and everyone had to return to the real business at hand. Beating him so he flinched and whimpered was and always would be fun, but it didn't produce results. Even Charlie couldn't play _all_ day. They cut him down and he landed on twisted legs, his face biting into the gravely ground. Rough hands manipulated the rope from which he had been hanging, twining it again and again around his swollen forearms, melding them into a single limb of anguish. Then they locked his ankles in heavy irons, the U-shaped horse hobbles through which a formidible bar was run. This time the bar rested on his Achilles tendons, for which he was naïve enough to be grateful. Ropes encircled his legs now, binding them in the same manner as his arms: ankles to knees. The "V" tried to draw them tightly enough to cut off circulation, but here their own methods of deprivation thwarted them. One bowl of rice per day… maybe. His legs were nothing but flesh-swathed sticks. The mammoth discs of his kneecaps and the doorknob-sized lumps on each ankle prevented the ropes from binding him too tightly.

When this limitation became evident there was some angered consultation. In the end they worked out a compromise, and the bar running through the ankle restraints was removed and replaced by one about four times as heavy. As this weight fell upon his unpadded joints, the prisoner could not help giving them the satisfaction of a muffled but agonized moan.

Encouraged by the feedback, the guards forced his wrists forward, between his knees, causing still more torment in his shoulders and elbows. They tied them off there, his purple fingers poking through towards the front. Then it was time for a little breather, so sandaled feet bounced off of his stomach for a while, until he started into dry heaves. Each time he gasped for air they would shove a fistful of mulch from the jungle floor between his teeth, so that he would choke and cough and gag worse than ever.

All the while, Quon watched, black eyes glittering. That was the frightening part. He was usually more of a hands-on type of guy, at least once the dirty work was done and the really nasty stuff started. If _this_ wasn't the nasty stuff…

They came at him with another iron bar, this one at least ten feet long. It was threaded between his back and his elbows. They tied ropes firmly around each side of the rod, and these were cast over the gallows. The ninety-four pounds that had been hoisted earlier was now closer to a hundred and fifty, two-fifths of it metal, and this time it took six men to lift it and tie off properly.

He wasn't raised far, though. Through swollen eyes, the prisoner could see the jungle floor three feet beneath his knees.

One of the interrogators started plying him with questions. He didn't answer. He wasn't going to answer. He knew that the smart thing was to lie, to fabricate crap too ridiculous to be of any use to them for propaganda but believable enough that things wouldn't get any worse. Never in his life, however, had he been one to do the smart thing.

Name. Rank. Serial Number. Birth date. Under international law, that was all that he was required to give these barbarians. Speaking through the slivers rammed into his gums from the rotting leaves treatment was difficult, but to each question he replied with his incantation, the mystical verse that still had some meaning, somewhere, despite the fact that it had become lost to him over the years.

"Calavicci, Albert. Born 15th June, 1934. Lieutenant. Serial Number B-933-852."

The pain grew, expanding like the shell of a hot-air balloon as it is filled. Empty. Meaningless. Larger and larger by the second until it blotted out the sun and left him in darkness with his hollow chant. Like a practitioner of an ancient religion familiar with the rites but not the mysteries, he uttered syllables without meaning, his voice flagging and faltering as the agony continued.

"Cal…lavicci. Alb-ert. Fifteenjune '34. Lieu-ieu-ieu-tenant. B-9. B-9. B-9. 338. Fifty-two."

After a while they gave up on the civil approach, and started bouncing him off of the ground. They hauled him almost to the crest of the gallows, the iron bar dragging on his elbows, and so his shoulders and through his wrists his knees. The weight of the other bar on his ankles was intolerable. Then, when his head was spinning with vertigo, the released the ropes, and he crashed to earth. Again and again, ascent and descent, he bounced, like a yo-yo operated by a child too short for the string. He was bleeding now from mouth and nose. His body was ingrained with small stones and gravel from landing after brutal landing. His shoulders twisted and finally gave up the battle to stay in their sockets. His torso hung from them by ligaments and skin, a sack of bones too weak to support itself.

Still, he wouldn't talk. He couldn't. The other men, Bobby and Zeke and Sparks, they were depending on him. If he gave in the VC would go after the others. Zeke couldn't take another beating. Not for a while. He needed time for his ribs to heal up some. And Sparks… the prisoner thought of the little kid from the Bayou. He thought maybe Sparks was close to cracking. To losing his mind. Maybe the next time Charlie tried to lick him he'd snap.

The pain was unbelievable. They slung him back up, three feet from the jungle floor, and tied him off. His eyes were swollen, but he could still see enough to realize what they were going to do. They had several objects: a length of fuel line from a motorcycle, matches, and a Coca Cola bottle. The captive recognized the first two and knew what they were going to do. The bottle was a mystery. He didn't have long to think about it, because they were ramming the matches into his ears, bulbs first. They hurt him, digging down towards his eardrums, pushing wax, and scabs and pus from previous treatments back down the canal. Yet it was a strangely refreshing pain: sharp, immediate, and so near his brain that for a few blessed seconds all other agony was superseded by this relatively minor discomfort.

Then the fuel line was folded in half, and one end rammed up each nostril and down the back of his throat. It was old, brittle stuff, but still, somehow, tasted of low-grade petroleum. The captive gagged, and his tormentors laughed. Once more they offered him the chance to confess. He spat it back in their faces.

Then Quon stepped forward, his favorite toy in one hand and the bottle in the other. For a horrible moment, the captive thought he was going to ram the neck of the piece of glass refuse down his throat.

He didn't. Quon had another orifice in mind. He rounded the prisoner, and stood behind him. Two guards grabbed each pole, holding the suspended man stationary for the delicate procedure ahead.

Fire from the base of his spine, shooting up into his abdomen and his chest. At first he couldn't believe it. The thought of what was happening was too much for his reason to grasp. Incapable of coping, he let go of logic and lost himself in the pain. The physical suffering was terrible, but it was better than thinking about what was happening. Unbelievable agony from every quarter, no avenue of misery left unexplored. And then, just when he thought there could be no more suffering, the cattle prod discharged against the sole of his left foot and all of Creation exploded in anguish. Then the right. Then he couldn't tell anymore, because it just kept coming. All control was lost. His shattered mind could stop nothing that his tortured body wanted to do. Not even the screams.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMMWMWWM 

The screams. They tore through the night, vulgar and horrific. Men awoke in terror, themselves transported for an instant back to Hell by their roommate's sounds of torment. Each reacted differently. There were those who hid beneath their blankets, willing the sounds to stop. One left his bed and tried to hide beneath it. Most looked around in confusion, seeking the source of the anguish.

Two men had the presence of mind required to overcome their own intrusions to help the one lost in remembered agony. One ran for the overhead lights, and the other towards the bed nearest the door, where Al lay writhing, his throat vocalizing the torture that should have been buried ten years in the past. The man grabbed him, hauling him into a sitting position and gripping both arms in an attempt to brace the twisting body against its own convulsions of terror and desperation. What he didn't realize was the suffering this caused in the abused shoulder. The dreamer's hoarse proclamations of wretchedness took on a new level of distress as the affliction became physical as well as psychological.

"Wake up, Captain!" the commander ordered, not understanding why the touch heightened the man's fear. "You're home. You're safe. It's over."

Al heard the words, and was dimly aware of the concerned faces gathering around him, but he couldn't shake the memory. It wasn't over. For him, it wasn't over. Not the pain, not the terror, not the war. 'Seventy-two, 'eighty-two, tonight there was no difference. A decade everyone around him had lived was suddenly lost. He screamed and struggled, trying to fight the pain, trying to control himself, trying, frantically, not to think about what was happening.

"Sir! Please! It's over! You're home! America! San Diego! It's just a dream!"

There was panic in the air now. It seemed plain that the MIA was going to hurt himself. Certainly what the men saw was a vision of the horrors they could still be living. Most had not been held in the deep jungle, far from the protective desire of the North Vietnamese government to use them as tools in a war of propaganda. Far more important, they had come home to family, friends, support nets. They had had help on their long road to healing. They had accepted help. Eleven pairs of suddenly sleepless eyes communicated with one another. _There but for the grace of God_, said each; _go I_.

He was still fighting the arms around him, and the hands of other men, pressing against his face and trying to ease the spasms in his legs, and somehow bring him back to reality. Someone checked his chart to refresh the memory of last night's introductions.

"Al!" he called. "Al, you're home! Wake up!"

"BETH!" the victim shrieked. "BETH! BETH! HELP ME!" Another scream, rattling in strained vocal cords, stole breath from the listeners.

"What's this?" The nurse was back, followed by two capable looking orderlies.

"A dream," said the commander holding Al. Trying frantically to reconcile the two conflicting worlds, the wretched man began to claw at his forehead, raising red welts with his nails. Instantly, four pairs of hands grabbed his wrists, and another jolt of anguish shot up his injured arm.

"Captain!" the woman said sternly. She was experienced and capable. Ten years ago she had been on the wards with these men or others like them. She had seen it all. "Captain Calavicci, wake up and stop this at once!"

Al wanted to obey. He wanted to believe the voices telling him that it was over, that he was home. Safe. But if he was home, why was there pain? Why could he feel thin cotton hanging off his shoulders? Why was he all but naked? Where was Beth? Why did the air reek of fear and horror?

He struggled, thrashing and trying to break free of the restraining hands. The voices were vague and muddled, and Quon was still there. Another scream tore from his throat.

The nurse drew back her hand and slapped him once. It wasn't a hard blow: it didn't even raise a flush on the ashen cheeks. What it did was give him an unexpected pain to distract from the others, a point of focus for his flailing mind. A hitching gasp was accompanied by sudden flaccidity of his limbs.

"All right," the woman said, her voice kind and understanding. "Everyone let him go. He's going to be fine. Isn't that right, Captain? You're going to be fine."

One by one the grasping hands released, and Al crumpled onto the mattress, whimpering piteously. He wasn't in the present yet. He was suspended in limbo between two agonies: the imagined one from the dream, and the real one from his shoulder.

"He's going to be fine," the nurse repeated, standing back so that the orderlies could take hold of the bony form and help him to his feet. "He's just going to have a session with Doctor Untreigner. Everyone lie down and try to get some sleep."

No one resisted. They all remembered these late-night sessions with the shrink. Over the years there had been fewer and fewer of them, but it was still standard procedure. The nurse turned towards Al, trying for modesty's sake to re-fasten the ties on his gown. He hardly felt her hands. He was too far gone, lost in the memories. The VC were still here. They were dragging him from his cell, bruised, bloodied and battered. God only knew where they were taking him, but he didn't have the strength to resist. Maybe they were taking him out to be executed. That wouldn't be so bad…

He stumbled, but they wouldn't let him fall. Down a long corridor, his bare feet cold on the floor. Into a small room, a white room. They eased him onto a bench, and he was surprised to find it was upholstered. There was a word for that. A bench with cushions and armrests and a soft back. He groped for it. Sofa. They were settling him on a sofa.

A female voice was addressing him. Gentle hands wrapped a blanket around his naked knees. Then a miracle! Plastic touched his lips and water lapped against his teeth. Cool, clean water. Al sucked frantically at it, draining away every drop. The woman spoke again, applauding him and settling his head against a cushion. She said something about a doctor, and then Al was left alone.

Alone? He couldn't bear to be alone. His limbs began to tremble and he drew his knees close to his chest. The pain shot through his shoulder again, and his mind misconstrued it, dragging him further away from the present again.

Yet reality was nearer, held close by the sofa, the blanket and the feeling of moisture in his mouth. He remembered a little. Starbright. Stevie. Sharon.

Sharon, he thought wretchedly. Where was Sharon? Why wasn't Sharon here?


	34. Chapter ThirtyThree

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Jack Untreigner was one of the foremost experts on Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. His experience with the affliction went beyond a psychiatrist's usual scope. He was himself a sufferer, or would have been considered one had there been any such thing in 1944. The _U.S.S. Silver Starr_ had gone down with all hands in the midst of the Atlantic, or so everyone had thought, on the seventeenth of January. Two weeks later, a convoy travelling from St. John's to Liverpool had picked up one of her lifeboats. Aboard her were two survivors: an eighteen-year-old enlisted man and the ship's surgeon, both dehydrated and half-dead of exposure. Ten men had escaped aboard her, only to succumb one by one to the elements. The little sailor boy had died in the sickbay of the Canadian battleship. The surgeon had survived.

It had taken Jack a year to talk about it. Three years before he could bear to practice again. Even now he still had nightmares about it. Watching his men die one by one, and he couldn't do a damned thing for them. He still woke up in the middle of the night, not in his bed next to his Gertrude, but in that miserable little coracle in the midst of the endless ocean, surrounded by death and darkness.

He knew, to a degree, what the man in front of him was grappling with.

Calavicci sat on the edge of the sofa, his bare feet planted next to each other and his knees pressed together. He had a hospital blanket wrapped tightly around his body, cocooning him and hiding his smock. His eyes were fixed studiously on a patch of carpet near the desk.

"Now," Jack began. "You had a dream."

"Have to dream to get a decent night's sleep. Mind doesn't rest otherwise." The gravely voice was low and sullen. Clearly cooperation was not high on Calavicci's list of priorities.

"That's very true. This was a nightmare, though, wasn't it?"

"I'm not crazy," the former POW—former MIA, Untreigner corrected himself, glancing at the chart in his hand—muttered.

"No, you aren't crazy, and the fact that you can have nightmares about what happened in Vietnam bears that out," Jack said.

Calavicci looked up, surprise momentarily lowering the guard in his dark eyes. "It does?"

"Of course. Any man who went through what you have and _didn't_ have the occasional nightmare; him I'd call crazy." The psychiatrist leaned surreptitiously forward, looking for a reaction.

The captain muttered something unintelligible.

"I didn't hear that," Jack said.

"Nothing."

"Oh." He crossed his arms over his chest and sat back. "I thought maybe you said that they weren't occasional at all."

"They're occasional," Calavicci said, too quickly. "They're definitely occasional. Just… not occasional enough, you know?"

"I see. They happen more often than you would like. What sets them off?"

He had gone too far too fast. Jack could see the battlements rising out of the earth, surrounding the man's true feelings, his thoughts, and the darkness he was fighting. Locking him in with his own worst enemy. "They're dreams," mumbled Calavicci. "Who knows?"

"Well, for instance, tonight's," Jack said, keeping his voice conversational. "What was it about?"

The look he received would have incinerated silicone. "That's not important."

"Was it a battle?" Jack asked, not so easily swayed. "You've seen a lot of action."

"No."

"You haven't?"

"No, I have," the former pilot allowed. "I mean it wasn't a battle."

"Oh. A death?"

"Hell, no!"

Jack tried again. "Your capture?"

This time it was scarcely a whisper. "No."

"An interrogation session." It wasn't a question.

Calavicci shivered and pulled the blanket more tightly around his body. "That's… a polite way of putting it," he said flatly.

Untreigner regarded the sad, shrunken figure. What horror had he relived tonight? What beating? What atrocities was this man remembering? He had heard tales from others, less guarded, less wounded than Calavicci, that had chilled his blood. It was difficult to maintain objectivity at times like this.

"It can be stressful being away from home," Jack said, trying to get the message across that this episode wasn't something the man should be ashamed of. In his experience people like Calavicci would never see it that way, but you had to try. "Sleeping in an unfamiliar bed, away from your wife, your usual nightly routine disrupted. Perhaps there was some important part of your evening ritual you couldn't do? Maybe that helped bring on the dream?"

The glance Calavicci gave him told him that this was exactly what had happened. That the man looked away again, his pallid cheeks tingeing faintly with shame, told him it was something less than respectable. Something the man didn't want to admit to.

"Perhaps it's just the hospital itself," Untreigner said, offering him an out. "Personally, I've never had a decent night's sleep in a hospital since the day I was born."

"Tell me about it," Calavicci said, his voice gaining some solidity as he tried to wisecrack. "No wine, no women. Well, no women who aren't packing hypodermic needles and rhinoceros sedatives!"

"Was that what you missed?" Jack asked, before he could help himself. "Do you usually take a glass of wine before bed?"

"_No!_" Calavicci snapped, fire crackling in his eyes. He composed himself and rocked a little. "I think I know why I dreamed about… what I did," he mumbled.

The dodging tactic wasn't lost on Jack, but it was executed masterfully. The patient had successfully diverted the conversation away from a subject he didn't want to broach by switching to one that was still distasteful but evidently less so. A subject, in addition, that no shrink could resist.

"Is that so?" Jack said.

"Yeah!" There was anger in the brown eyes now, building as he spoke and filtering into his voice. "Being stuck here, that's what did it! All my stuff taken away, you sadistic bastards poking and pricking and swabbing, sticking things down my throat and in my ears and—and other places where stuff doesn't belong! I—" He froze, clearly horrified at admitting what he had.

"I see," Untreigner said. In fact, he wasn't certain that he did, but part of being a good psychiatrist was having the right words at the right moment. "It isn't anything physical. It's the feeling of having no control. The idea of letting go and allowing someone else to take charge."

"I… yeah! Yeah, that's it, exactly. You're a genius, Doc. You hit it on the nose," Calavicci said rapidly. "Can I go back to bed now?"

"Not just yet. Is there anything that I can do to help you regain some sense of control?"

"Give me back my clothes, my wallet and my car keys."

Untreigner smiled. "I can't do that," he said. Vice Admiral Featherstone had issued very specific orders. While most of the veterans were cooperative, others had a way of vanishing when least expected. Calavicci scowled ferociously.

"Can I at least have some jockey shorts?" he asked. "I mean, it's not that I'm not proud of what I've got, but it gets a bit breezy, you know."

Humor. They had come full circle. The walls were back up. The window of opportunity that came with the vulnerability that followed in the wake of the dreams was lost. There would be no earth-shattering breakthrough tonight. In all likelihood, there would never be one. He just hoped the iron barrier that Calavicci was building was strong enough to weather the storm.

"I'll see what I can do," Jack promised.

MWMWMWMWMWWMMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMMWMWM 

Al sat on the edge of the bed, clutching his knees as if they had the power to take off without him. The nurse had taken him to the Quartermaster's, where he had been issued half-a-dozen pairs of regulation white boxers, and then brought him here. It was a private room with a large window. He wouldn't be bunking with the other men anymore.

He was glad. He couldn't go back there and face them, not after what they had witnessed.

"You don't do things by halves, do you, Calavicci?" he muttered. "Not enough to have your silly little nightmares: you have to wake up the whole damned ward."

He remembered enough of the awakening to remember that.

He was still shaking in the wake of the nightmare. Yes, it was very, very good that they'd moved him here. Going back amongst those men would have been almost as bad as being returned to the hootch after that session in '72 had been. Bobby and the guys had done what they could for him: drawn the matchsticks carefully from his bleeding ears, eased the tubing out of his nose. They had tried to minister to his wrists, still locked behind his back so that they couldn't set his shoulders. As best they could without water or fresh cloths they had cleaned him up. But they couldn't expunge the memory. They couldn't exorcise the shame. Dim memories of humiliation so great that he couldn't even rouse himself to beg for death assailed him, and the trembling worsened.

He couldn't go back to sleep. He couldn't. If he did, if he went to bed without a little liquid insurance, Al knew he'd be back there in a heartbeat. He couldn't face that.

Yet he was exhausted. Any renewal the scant hours of unconsciousness preceding the night terror had brought was cancelled by the pervasive weariness possessing him now. His very teeth ached with it. He knew he could try to fight it, but eventually his harrowed body would win out and he would slip under. Out of the present and straight back to Vietnam.

The only thing to do was to ring for a sedative. They'd probably give it to him. They always did, after the nightmares, but the next day you had to justify yourself to the shrinks. They'd grill you for hours, trying to find out whether this happened at home a lot, whether you had a habit you were feeding off the streets. Whether, after all, you weren't quite the sane, stable paragon of Naval virtue and capability that everyone thought you were. They were always trying to trick you, to trap you. To catch you in a moment of weakness so that they could chuck you out the door.

The thought occurred to Al, but only briefly, that that was a very paranoid way of looking at it. He scrubbed his face with quivering hands. God, could he ever use a nice cold glass of whiskey. Of course, that was out of the question.

Or was it?

Sure, it was a hospital, but there had to be some spirits around here somewhere. Alcohol was the antidote for something, wasn't it? Methanol poisoning?

Al got to his feet and moved unsteadily to the door. His legs wouldn't obey him properly, and his knees shook, but he kept going. He reached the door and slipped out into the corridor. It was deserted. He crept towards the end of the hallway, each step growing more confident. There had to be somewhere he could go for a drink. They probably had potable liquor in the dispensary in the basement, but it would be locked up. He could only imagine how well it would go over with the brass if he was caught burgling the Balboa Naval Hospital pharmacy.

The kitchen, he realized triumphantly. Sure, they served up slop for the patients, but the staff was fed here too, and you could bet they didn't give the brain surgeons rubber meat and prehistoric vegetables. There had to be some burgundy or something for cooking.

He knew the hospital better than most patients would. He had spent twenty months in and out of this place after repatriation. And Beth had worked here… Beth…

Al shook his head as if he could physically obliterate her memory. He reached the elevators, and then realized that that was a bad move. He'd be trapped, unable to hide if some nurse wanted to use the lift. This floor was quiet, but there were others that never stopped, not for night or for any other force. He turned towards the stairs.

They flew beneath his bare feet as he flitted down, a ghost in a hospital smock. Nine floors vanished behind him and he emerged on the service floor. It took him a minute to orient himself, trying to remember the long-gone days of coming to pick up his beautiful wife. Beth, Beth… but he couldn't think about her. He'd been through enough tonight without dreaming about Beth.

Eventually the mental maps came back, and he moved silently through the hallways, past the laundry which even at this time of night was a hive of activity. The kitchen was easy enough to enter: it had swinging doors that apparently were never locked. Then came the monumental task of searching the room. He did so methodically, going through cupboard after cupboard carefully and thoroughly. Eventually, he had to admit defeat. There was nothing. Maybe he could nab some rubbing alcohol or something.

He moved to close the last cupboard, and a yellow label caught his eye. He snatched up the bottle. It was a half-gallon of pure vanilla extract, almost full. Al clutched it fondly. Vanilla extract was at least thirty-five percent alcohol. Of course, had an aftertaste like purgatorial mouthwash, but that was a small price to pay for a decent night's sleep. There were plastic water jugs on the other side of the room, and he emptied half the bottle into one. Then he replaced it carefully, lifted his pitcher and started towards the door. His hands were shaking so that he was in very real danger of spilling. He stopped and took a long draught of the dark fluid. It burned its way down his throat, tasting vaguely of bourbon. He let out a sigh of contentment. This was high-grade stuff: had to be at least eighty proof. It would get him through the night. If he rationed himself, it would probably last the whole stay in this miserable hospital.

The return journey was not without its tense moments. Al had to duck off the stairwell hastily, hiding on the fourth floor while two night-nurses headed downstairs for their coffee break. Also, mounting eight flights was a much more onerous task than descending them, and by the time he made it back to his floor his legs ached as if he had run a marathon. He went back to his room, concealed his precious cargo beneath the bed, and then took his own empty pitcher up the hall. A fistful of ice in a plastic hospital cup, vanilla extract and two packets of Sweet 'N Low he had swiped from the nurses' lounge, and he actually had a fairly decent cocktail. He polished it off and curled up under the blankets. Soon he was asleep.

He did not dream again that night.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

Tuesday he was in for more x-rays, and then had to do time with the physical therapists, who wanted to gauge the dexterity of his other joints. Then more blood tests and a sperm count, and a two-hour meeting with a career counsellor who wanted to hear all about Starbright. Al actually enjoyed that one. He loved to boast about his girls, and Starbright was definitely _his girl_. Of course, he couldn't go into specifics, but raving about the cover operation alone made him happy. That evening, protected by his vanilla, he didn't dream at all.

Wednesday was Shrink Day. Interrogation by the sex therapist, ninety minutes in the clutches of a family counsellor, the never-ending education about late-onset PTSD. Al tuned that one out. He didn't have late-onset PTSD. His stress disorder had been with him right from the get-go, but it wasn't something they could help with. They didn't need to know. There were a lot of things he'd rather die than tell anyone. Much, much rather die. He'd rather endure them again than have anybody know.

Thursday he should have been discharged, but instead he was sent to pre-op for his shoulder. The German War Machine had continued to roll over Calavicci, and they weren't going to delay fixing the joint. If they did, Doctor Nyugen quipped, he would only do more damage to it!

Al awoke from the anesthesia, groggy, disoriented and not a little stoned. There was a smiling nurse above him, and he had a dim recollection of saying something very stupid. She laughed amicably and adjusted his blankets. Soon after that he slipped back under.

It was only when he awoke the next morning with the world still bleary around him that he realized Sharon would've expected him last night, and he was supposed to be at Starbright today.

But he was too tired to do anything about it now, so he let his eyes close again.


	35. Chapter ThirtyFour

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

"Where's Captain Calavicci?" Dan Penvenen demanded.

The pert young secretary sitting behind the desk looked up, her smile suddenly dissolving. "I'm not sure," she said.

Dan cast her a cold look. "What do you mean, you're not sure?"

"He didn't come in this morning," Ms. Pharris said. "He isn't usually in Friday mornings anymore."

"I've noticed that," Penvenen said. "Why?"

"He hasn't said," Eulalie told him. "I'm worried about him. I'm beginning to wonder if there's something wrong at home."

"You mean that the Captain is allowing his personal life to interfere with his duties?" Dan asked, moving towards the frosted glass window set in Calavicci's door.

"Oh, no, he's always on top of things," the woman said. "It's just… well, he seems to be pushing himself awfully hard."

"Not showing up until five at night most days, yes, I can see how hard he's pushing himself," Penvenen murmured. "I understand he wasn't in at all this week."

"He was out of state for medical reasons," Eulalie said.

This was news to Dan. "Was he?"

"That's what he said," Ms Pharris intoned. "He said he'd be gone until Thursday, and—"

"Thursday?"

"Yes…"

"Today is Friday."

"Yes, I… I realize that…" She looked flustered. Dan tried to pull back a bit. He was supposed to be an ally to the staff. If he started playing hardball with Calavicci's secretary he would alienate a potentially very valuable collaborator. He put on a friendly smile.

"I'm only concerned about how these absences are affecting your ability to do your job," he said, stroking the petals of the African violet on her desk. "It can't be very easy to work for a man who's never around."

"Well, I… Mr. Prysock's very capable, and Captain Calavicci is here on Tuesdays and Thursdays."

"Not this week."

She pursed her lips a little. "No," she admitted.

"I'm surprised that he didn't see fit to inform Human Resources of his absence," Dan observed. "Is he this chronically disorganized in other areas as well?"

"Not at all!" the secretary protested. "No, he's very efficient."

He was also, Dan reflected, absent without leave.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMMWWMMWMWMWWMWMWM_

It had been a horrible week. On Tuesday Sharon had taken Celestina and Esteban up to the hospital to discuss the results of his latest series of tests. The doctor had been very friendly and optimistic, but the message rang through loud and clear despite her kind smile. Remission wasn't expected after only six weeks, and Esteban hadn't broken the rule. He would have to go back for another session starting in a fortnight.

Celestina was devastated. She had been so certain her baby would be cured by the medicines that had made him so sick. Sharon had tried to explain that there was still a very good chance that he would get better, but that it was going to take a while, that was all. The younger woman said all the right things about how she understood that the doctors would help, and how it was God's will, and how thankful she was for all that had already been done, but Sharon could tell that the news had dealt a grievous blow to her confidence, and perhaps even to her faith.

Esteban didn't know the difference. Al would have argued the point, but Sharon knew better. He was a sweet little boy, but he was hardly more than an overgrown baby, and he had no perception of his situation. Illness or wellness was to him a daily concern, even hourly. When he felt sick, the world was ending. If five minutes later the nausea or the pain was gone, he was as happy and optimistic as it was possible to be. At least he wasn't dreading the resumption of therapy. When Doctor Ananda told him he would have to come back, he had just said how much he loved "Jeth" and how "Mithta Al" would bring him to get his medicine. He didn't seem to make any connection between the treatments and his rapid deterioration this spring.

It was going to break Al's heart when he found out the child was still sick. Sharon knew that he was expecting the worst and preparing himself for the boy of whom he was so fond to wither and die. Still, she suspected he harbored a secret hope that he would pull through and that the miracle of modern medicine wouldn't disappoint. It would be hard on him to hear the news, and even harder to continue the grueling pace he had set for himself.

Added to these anxieties, now, was the fact that her husband was twenty-four hours overdo.

By now, Sharon was worried sick. Al had said he would be back from his Navy physical on Thursday night. It was now Friday evening, and there was no sign of him. No phone call, nothing. He could be lying dead in the mountains for all she knew, having been run off the road, unable to compensate with his injured arm!

She had tried, fruitlessly, to remember where he had gone. San Francisco or San Diego? She couldn't even remember whether it was a hospital or a clinic. And of course, being the thoughtless, absent-minded idiot that he was, he hadn't left her a number or any way to reach him. So here she'd sat at home all weekend, hovering near the phone for fear the state police would call and have her come and identify his body.

The one pleasant aspect of the week had, surprisingly, been Juan Penja. The muscular Mexican wasn't at all the burdensome houseguest she had expected him to be. Over the last few weeks she had hardly even noticed his presence. He ate at Celestina's, worked all day, and came in around eleven at night to turn in on their sofa. Since Al had departed for California (Where in California? If only she could remember where!), though, he'd been around more, keeping her company. He'd even stayed for supper yesterday. Sharon had been feeling very lonely and depressed, and had really hoped Al would come home before Juan headed off to sleep, so that she wouldn't have to be the one to break the news about Esteban. Al, of course, hadn't shown, but the unwanted houseguest made wonderful company. He was funny and charming, and he seemed to have a never-ending stream of compliments for her. It was just the kind of attention she needed to distract her from the intolerable weight of worry, and if she had paused to think about it, she would have realized how eager she was for him to come back from the building site.

The phone rang, and Sharon fairly dived for it. "Hello?" she cried.

"Captain Calavicci, please," said the voice on the other end. It belonged to a cool, businesslike male.

Sharon scowled. Not only was the voice not Al's, but the question twisted the knife in the wound of her anxiety. "He's not here," She said coldly. "Who's calling?"

"Daniel Penvenen," the man on the other end of the line informed her. "I work with the captain. When are you expecting him home?"

In her present state, almost frantic and imagining thousands of horrible reasons why Al hadn't returned, that query was too much for Sharon to bear. "Your guess is as good as mine!" she cried, slamming down the receiver. Tears of anger and anxiety burned in her eyes. Where was he? Why hadn't he called?

The thought invaded her mind that he was out with another woman. A younger woman. A thinner, more beautiful woman. One who didn't leave her clothes lying around or abandon dishes unwashed in the sink. One he'd never seen coloring her hair, or cleaning up the dog drips in the backyard, or holding a mixing bowl for a kid to puke into. A woman with long, shapely legs and a fancy car. One who didn't hang around the house in a paint smock and sweat pants. A woman who wasn't Sharon Quinn.

The thought of Al sleeping around was horrible. Who was he to say she wasn't good enough? A litany of his many faults began to percolate.

"Mrs Calavicci?"

Sharon whirled around. Juan was just coming into the house. He smiled, but his expression grew grave when he saw her face.

"Something wrong?" he asked, kicking off his dusty work boots and leaving them outside, next to the cinderblock stoop. He came into the kitchen in stocking feet.

"No, Juan," Sharon said. "No. Nothing's wrong."

"But you're worried," he said. " 'Cause Al's not back."

"A little," Sharon said. She tried to sound casual, but failed miserably as her voice broke.

"He's okay," Juan said. "Those guys at the hospital probably had to do stuff for his shoulder."

It was a chance to let go of some of the doubt and anxiety that was gnawing away at her soul. Sharon let her worries bubble up to the surface. "But why didn't he call? Why didn't he let me know?" she fretted, gesticulating wildly. "Where is he? What's happened? Who is he with? Is he okay?"

Her hands flew wildly, groping in much the way that Al's were wont to do, as if they could communicate frustrations that her throat couldn't articulate. Juan watched them while she spoke, then reached out and caught her wrists with his fingers. His hold was strangely delicate, at odds with the size of his muscular appendages. He cradled her hands gently and looked deep into her eyes. "Don't worry," he said, his voice low and resounding and amazingly reassuring.

Sharon couldn't stand it. The unrelenting worry—about Dad, about Esteban, and now about Al—was too much. She had been on red alert for too long. She couldn't take it anymore. She couldn't handle it. She was tired of fretting alone. She was tired of trying to be strong for everybody, trying to bear everyone's problems. She couldn't stand the endless anxiety, never sure if Daddy was going to hurt himself, wondering whether that poor little kid would catch a cold in that unheated trailer and die in agony, asking herself whether Al was roadkill in the mountains, or shacking up in the arms of another woman, or God only knew what! She didn't want her life to be like this. She hadn't had a worry-free night in ages. She didn't have any help. She didn't have any support. She wanted someone to look out for her, for once, instead of always having to be there for everyone else! She wanted a big shoulder to cry on.

And here he was, ready-made. With a little sob, Sharon fell forward and Juan wrapped his strong arms around her. He held her while the tears came, and she buried her face against his chest. His hands patted her back and stroked her hair.

"I can't keep going on like this!" Sharon sobbed, finally vocalizing the cumulative pain of months—no, of years. It had begun when Daddy first started to get sick, even before Mom died. She couldn't stand it anymore. "What am I supposed to do with him? What am I supposed to do with that man?"

"Ssh, it's okay," Juan murmured, massaging her neck gently. "It's okay."

"It's not!" Sharon protested, shuddering with the force of her weeping and laying her head against his shoulder. She inhaled deeply and took comfort in the musky smell of sweat and sunshine. "It's not okay! You don't understand!"

"Tell me," Juan offered kindly.

Why the hell not? She had to get this off her chest. She just couldn't stand it anymore. She had to talk to _someone_! "He's impossible!" she cried. "He thinks he's fine, but he isn't! He's not okay! He has these nightmares… these terrible nightmares… and he can't get to sleep without a drink! He doesn't eat, and he's never home, and he wouldn't even have got to see a doctor about that shoulder that's killing him, if the Navy hadn't made him do it!"

Her sobs redoubled. He wasn't taking care of himself, and nothing she could say or do would make him start. He would end up just like Dad, weak and confused and sick. His mind was going already: you could tell just from the dreams. She couldn't cope, not with another one!

Juan wrapped his arms tightly around her and led her into the living room, where he seated them both on the sofa, still holding her. Sharon curled her legs up underneath her body and laid her head on the man's broad chest while he petted her back. She continued her agonized soliloquy.

"He tries so hard," she said. "He tries so hard to do everything for everybody. He looks after Esteban, watches out for Celestina… and you… and the secret project. He's good to Dad and I know he sent Luke a birthday present, and he writes to his last wife to make sure she's okay. But he doesn't even think about himself. All he does is work, and go to the hospital, and work and work and work. And he's spending so much money, and we're running out, and I don't know what to do! I just don't know what to do anymore!"

"Have you tried talking to Al about it?" Juan asked gently, adjusting his hold a little and stroking her cheek.

"What good would that do?" Sharon wailed. "He doesn't listen! He never listens! He doesn't give a damn about what I think, and—"

The telephone rang, ripping the air apart. With a little cry, Sharon sprung to her feet and flew into the kitchen, snatching the receiver from the wall. "_Hello!_" she shrieked.

"Ow!" a familiar voice barked. Then it continued, irate and hollow as if the speaker was holding the phone at arm's length and shouting into it. "You mind turning that squeeze-box of yours down a little?" he demanded.

"Al!" Sharon exclaimed. "God—where have you been? Why the hell haven't you called? What's wrong? Do I have to—"

He laughed. It was an infuriating sound. "Why, Sharon," he said; "I didn't know you cared!"

"You lousy b—" Out of the corner of her eye, Sharon caught sight of Juan watching her. For some reason, she didn't want to use bad language in front of him, despite the fact that Al deserved it. "Where are you?" she said instead.

"Still at the hospital," Al said. "They put me in for surgery last nig—"

"_Surgery_?" she exclaimed in dismay.

"The shoulder, remember?" Al said.

God, she had almost forgotten! "What's wrong with it?" she asked. The truncated banter was soothing her nerves a little.

"Nothing now, I hope," he said. "Otherwise I'm suing these quacks for malfeasance."

"You mean malpractice," Sharon said. "Malfeasance is something you charge cops with."

"Whatever," Al said. "Anyway, it was some kind of muscle thing. They think they've fixed it, but they aren't going to let me out of here until Monday, and they're going to farm me out to the orthopedist in town for monitoring."

"You make it sound serious," she said.

"Naw!" Al told her. "I just won't be doing any cartwheels for a while. How's my little guy?"

Sharon's throat closed. She couldn't tell him about Esteban like this, not over the phone.

"Well? Can I talk to him?" Al said.

"Talk to… no, he's not here," Sharon said, confused.

"Not there?" Al cried. "I'm gone for five days and you lose the dog?"

He meant Chester! Sharon had to restrain herself before she laughed in relief. "No, of course not," she said. "I mean he's in the bedroom. Just a second." She whistled for the dog. "Chester! Chester, come and talk to Daddy!"

"How many times do I have to tell you I'm not his daddy?" Al asked. Sharon was irritated by the playful lilt to his voice. Where did he get off being so happy, when she had been worried sick?

"Here he is," she snapped, lowering the receiver. Chester stared at it, puzzled, and then began to lick the mouthpiece.

Al must have said something, because the dog barked, his feathery little tail whipping from side to side. As Sharon lifted the phone back up, wiping Yorkie spit off of it with her sleeve, she caught a delighted, "Attaboy!"

"Someone named Daniel phoned here looking for you," she said coolly.

"Who?" Al said blankly.

"Daniel."

"I don't know any Daniel," said Al. "You sure it wasn't a wrong number?"

What did he think she was, stupid? "How many wrong numbers can pronounce _Calavicci_? He said he works with you."

"Daniel…" Al muttered. "He give you a last name?"

"Nevin or Pendragon or something stupid like that," Sharon said.

"Oh, Pen_venen_!" Al exclaimed, laughing. "That's just Human Resources. They probably want to repaint the mess hall or something. If Prysock can't deal with it I'll take care of it when I get back."

"Which is when?" Sharon asked.

"I'll be home Monday, I told you—did I tell you?"

There was something strange about his voice. "Are you _drunk_?" Sharon asked in disbelief. What kind of hospital was this?

Al chortled. "No such luck, babe," he said. "They've got me on some meds for the shoulder, and I think they're making me a little loopy. G'night."

"Hey, wait—" she exclaimed, but he had already hung up. Sharon glowered. Not only had she neglected to ask him which hospital he was at, he hadn't even apologized for forgetting to call!

She stormed into the living room, having forgotten Juan's presence entirely. She almost jumped when he said, "So he's okay?"

"Oh, fine!" she snarled. "Fine. Went in for surgery and didn't even tell me! You see what I mean?"

"He's a good man," Juan said mildly.

"And a terrible husband!" Sharon cried, flinging herself down on the sofa and leaning against him. "I don't know what I'm going to do!"

Juan put his arms around her again. "Don't worry," he said. "You have to learn not to worry."

"Oh, I suppose you never worry?" Sharon said.

"Never," he told her. "I have my wagon, and I go around wherever I want. The States. Mexico. I even went up to Alberta once. I don't need to worry about money. I don't need to worry about work. I take things the way they come. It's a good life."

"What about Esteban?" queried Sharon.

"What about him?"

"Don't you worry about Esteban?" It seemed like the little boy was at the top of everyone's worry list.

"No," Juan said. "No. If he gets better, that's good. If he doesn't he'll go straight to Heaven and the Madonna will sit him on her lap."

Sharon was momentarily silenced by this image. She had never been really close to her faith. It was just something she'd inherited from her father and taken for granted. She supposed she was a "lapsed" Catholic, whatever that meant. Certainly she didn't go to Mass with any regularity. Yet Al's lack of faith had always troubled her. And Juan's abundance of it was strangely attractive.

Almost as attractive, she reflected with a naughty thrill of delight, as his large and muscular body, long curling dark hair, and sloe-black eyes.


	36. Chapter ThirtyFive

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Al was confused. Bewilderment clung to him like rain-soaked clay: cold and heavy. It smothered logic and transmogrified reasoned thought into an impossible task. Unable to intellectualize, he focused on small and incontestable truths. These were easier for his muddled mind to grasp.

First, he was aware that he was clean, dry and warm. That was an extraordinary combination. It almost seemed impossible. Al pushed the thought away, because it was too puzzling. Fact, he told himself firmly. Clean. Dry. Warm.

His arms were bound: he could feel the pressure of the restraints in the crook of his left elbow. It surprised him that the bonds were loose enough that there was still feeling in his fingers. He was all too aware of the bone-deep burning in his shoulder, however, and knew that there was no rest for the wicked.

That was nothing new or puzzling. Suffering was instinctual by now. He wasn't sure what he would do if he woke up one morning to find that nothing hurt. What wasn't so easy to grasp was the conflicting feelings in his head. It was pleasantly thick and fuzzy, as if he was still half asleep after lying in late and waking gradually in his body's own time. Yet by the same token, there was the blistering pain that usually followed after days in the sun without respite. A pounding sensation was underlying these sensations, like the beginnings of one truly murderous hangover.

There was a hissing noise, and Al opened his eyes with a start. You had to watch out for snakes. Most were harmless and some were good eating, but there were a few that were so deadly that Charlie wouldn't even know what hit you.

It wasn't a snake. A guard had just raised the window shade, letting the sunshine flood into the cell. Al watched him warily, heart pounding as he realized that this wasn't a cell. It was too clean, too airy and open, to be a cell. Where was he? He had never seen an interrogation room like this. What were they going to do to him now?

"Good morning, Captain," the guard said. "Did you sleep well?"

Al spared a moment of confusion as he looked around the room for the addressed captain, only to find that he was alone with the guard. Calavicci and one diminutive soldier, and out that broad window he could see the sky. No walls, just the sky. Escape, he thought at once. If he could silence this one scab and get out that window…

The guard drew nearer the bed. He was smiling. Al knew from experience that when they smiled you were in for a terrible time. Not wanting to seem as weak or vulnerable as he was he tried to sit up, but anguish shot through his shoulder and he fell back against the mattress—mattress?—with an involuntary cry.

"Careful!" the man cried, reaching out to brace him against the sudden discomfort. Al tried to scramble away from the hands he knew meant to hurt him, but he was stopped by a hard metal railing. Trapped, he lashed out with his only weapon: his voice.

"Get away, you slant-eyed bastard, and leave me alone!" he cried, using his good arm to drag the blankets over his head as some meager protection from the blows he knew were coming.

The hands withdrew abruptly, and Al could sense the hostile presence withdrawing. He froze, terrified by this unexpected twist. When no assault came from any other direction he pulled back the covers, peering cautiously over them. As this makeshift shield was lowered, he emerged in a different time and place.

The hospital room he had occupied since the early hours of Tuesday surrounded him. In front of him, wearing a look of concern, compassion and valiantly disguised hurt, was Doctor Nyugen.

Al stared, his mind trying to form a cohesive profile of his environment through the fog in his mind. "Doc?" he whispered.

"Good morning," the physician repeated. "I'm sorry I startled you."

"I…" Al rubbed his eyes. "I…"

"You're probably still groggy from last night's morphine," Doctor Nyugen said, coming nearer as Al sat up, touching the sling-and-strap apparatus immobilizing his left arm and shoulder against his chest. "How's your arm?"

"Sore," Al admitted. He was more concerned with the state of his head. He probably shouldn't have polished off that vanilla with the pain meds. This was one beaut of a hangover.

"We would like to send you for one more set of x-rays. Then, once we've set up appointments with an orthopedist and a physiotherapist in Arizona, you're free to go," Nyugen said.

"Really?" Al asked.

"Yes."

"What about a shrink?" His opiate-loosened lips betrayed his mind.

Nyugen frowned. "I'm sorry?"

Al tried to shrug it off. "I thought maybe you'd want to pawn me off on a headshrinker or something stupid like that."

"Oh, no. Your performance on the psychology portion of the evaluation was excellent," the physician assured him.

"_Really_?"

The smaller man nodded. "You're obviously a very intelligent, capable and well-adjusted officer—though obviously your ordeal was on your mind this morning," he added quietly.

Al looked up at the doctor, and his own words of not ten minutes past flooded back in a torrent of shame. "God, I'm sorry," he whispered, unable to articulate his contrition in any other way.

Nuygen shrugged. "So what?" he said. "You didn't mean it. Now, I'm just going to take your blood pressure—"

"It still hurts," Al murmured.

"It'll take a while to heal," the doctor said, indicating the bandaged shoulder. "The therapist you'll be seeing back home will be able to give you a better idea of when you can expect—"

"No, what I said," Al interrupted. "It still hurts you, even though I didn't mean it."

The physician regarded him soberly. "Captain, I wouldn't be working on this ward if I took such remarks personally. You spoke in confusion. We don't take the morphine insults any more seriously than we do the morphine compliments."

He smiled again, completed the blood pressure check, then promised to send the nurse in with Al's belongings. Left alone, the one-time MIA crumpled in an agony of self-flagellation.

He shouldn't have said that. Said it? He shouldn't have _thought_ it. It was a horrible, racist thing to think. The doctor had been perfectly considerate, aside from the poking and prodding that doctors inherently did, and there had been no reason…

What had happened, he wondered as he berated himself, to that honorable young ensign who had used his month's leave to march with the civil rights protestors in Selma?

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

The wonderful thing about the uniform was that the second you put it on your confidence took a quantum leap. It was so easy to hide thoughts and feelings beneath the crisply pressed khakis. Al signed his release papers under the watchful eye of the warden in nurses' clothing, flashing her a grin that she didn't return.

"Captain Calavicci!"

Al turned to see Untreigner, the nocturnal shrink, striding swiftly into the lobby. He paused, kit bag on his good shoulder.

"I was hoping to catch you before you left," the psychiatrist said. "Do you have a minute to talk?"

Al looked around the bustling admissions floor. "Here?" he asked.

"Outside, if you don't mind," Untreigner said. "I'm on a twenty-minute break in appointments and could really use a smoke."

Al laughed in spite of himself. "_You_ could really use a smoke? Who's been locked up in this joint for a week, anyway?"

They left the building together, and Al followed the doctor around to a stretch of lawn. There were hydrangea bushes forming a windbreak, conveniently screening the men from the sightline of the building. Al whipped out the cigar he'd intended to light up when he got to his car, and the psychiatrist took out a packet of Camels. Al was quicker with the lighter, and ignited the cigarette first, and then his own implement.

"Thanks," Untreigner said, inhaling contentedly. "Now, Captain, I wanted…"

Al sighed. "You want me to get a shrink," he said. "Shape up, Calavicci, and that's an order! Spill your guts or you don't eat! God, I love the Navy."

"No, Captain." The voice was firm and earnest. "It won't do you any good if you don't want help."

"Well, I don't want help," Al said crossly, taking a vicious puff on his cigar. "I'm coping quite well, thanks."

"I can see that. Your unending list of citations and honors bears it out. Obviously not only the Navy but also the government agrees with that assessment. I merely think that there comes a time in each person's life when they could do with a copilot for a little stretch."

"So what are wives for?" Al quipped.

"Do you talk to your wife about your experiences?" Untreigner asked.

"My wife finds me _very_ experienced."

The psychiatrist chuckled a little. "I can imagine," he said. "Captain, sometimes there are things we can't stand to share with the people we love. Things that are so painful we would rather cope with them all alone than risk hurting others with the knowledge of tragedies and atrocities that they would never be exposed to otherwise. I know how it is to—"

"Oh, you do, do you?" Al snapped. He hated when people said that. He must have heard those goddamned words eight thousand times after repatriation. _I know how you must feel, Al: this one time my girlfriend dumped me, and… I know what you're going through: those barbarians did such terrible things to our boys… I know how much this'll hurt. I had my leg set twice in one day when I was fourteen. Football injury_. If you didn't know, say you didn't know! There was nothing more infuriating than people paying lip service to your worst agonies.

"Yes," Untreigner said. Something in his gray eyes gave Al pause. It wasn't pity or compassion, it was… it was grief. Deep, penetrating sorrow. "Yes, Captain Calavicci, I do. You see, I have nightmares, too. Nightmares about something that happened to me, back in '44. Do you want to know what?"

Al stared. This shrink was going to spill his guts at a patient's say-so? Voluntarily share his dark secret with a complete stranger? It was beyond belief. "You'd tell me?" he blurted. "Why?"

"Because you know what it's like," Untreigner said. "You know what it feels like to have something like this that you can't stop reliving. I was a ship's surgeon onboard a—"

"Stop!" Al said. "Stop. I don't want to know, Doc. It wouldn't be fair. I can't swap you stories about the service. I just can't."

"We could change that," the older man said softly.

Al shook his head. "No, thanks," he said. "Nothing needs changing. It's perfect. It's all perfect."

"Perfect?" Untreinger echoed mildly.

Al wilted under the canny gaze. "Okay, not _perfect_," he acceded. "But as good as it's going to get."

"At least come and see me," the doctor suggested. "If you won't seek a regular counselor, at least let me book you in for an appointment so that we can talk again before your next checkup."

Al's eyes narrowed. "When?"

The psychiatrist chuckled ruefully. "I'm booked solid 'til October," he said. "I could fit you in then."

"October?" Al repeated. So it wasn't urgent. This shrink didn't think there was anything really wrong with him, if he could put it off till October. Maybe he just wanted to commiserate: old sailors together, and all that jazz. In any case, October seemed a hundred years away. "Sure. I guess I could manage October."

"I'll have my secretary schedule you in, and have her give you a call closer to the date," Untreigner said, digging out a leather sleeve and giving Al a business card. "In the meantime, if you ever need to talk, just give me a call. I know you're used to fighting alone, but you don't have to do that anymore."

"That's the way I like it," Al said. "Alone."

"Then you're a braver man than I am," said Untreigner somberly. "It was an honor to meet you, Captain Calavicci. Safe journey home."

He stubbed out his cigarette in the stone ashtray and strode back towards the hospital. Al glanced at the business card, preparing to tear it up. Then, for reasons he didn't understand, he shoved it into his uniform pocket before making his way to the inpatient parking lot.

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Chester heard the Corvette first, but Sharon wasn't far behind. She had been celibate for _way _too long, and the weekend watching Juan's beautiful body had done nothing to quash the romantic mood. As soon as she recognized the sound of the car, she abandoned her brush and palette and ran through the trailer and out the front door. Al, his arm in a sling and bound to his chest with a broad elasticized strap, was pulling into the driveway. He grinned as she approached.

"How's my girl?" he asked, getting out of the car. He was hampered only slightly by the bound arm as he hugged her and gave her a firm smacker right on the lips.

"You're a selfish jerk," she said fondly. "When were you going to tell me about this surgery anyway?"

Al shrugged. "It's not important. How's Stevie?"

Sharon had hoped he would take a little longer to come around to that. "Are you hungry?" she asked.

"Ravenous," Al told her. "They didn't feed me anything but hospital slops the whole time. And man, could I use a drink!"

It was ample distraction. He jogged up to the trailer, quite forgetting his baggage and his anal-retentive habit of covering the car. Once he was inside Sharon could hear him fussing over the dog. She took the kit bag from the front seat and followed him inside.

"I was thinking," she mused, coming up behind Al and twining her arms around him. "I was thinking maybe we could go out for supper tonight—my treat."

"What brought on this sudden burst of generosity?" Al asked, rocking a little against her.

"I was thinking," she whispered seductively, leaning closer to his ear; "that we'd need a little exercise before we went."

Al chuckled and turned so that he could face her. He kissed her neck. "Sounds like a plan," he said. "Now. How's Stevie?"

She tried to hide her emotions, but he saw it. Suddenly his desiring hold fell flat. He pulled back, shaking his head numbly. "Oh, no," he whispered.

"It hasn't got any worse," Sharon said hastily. "His abnormal cell count is still too high, that's all. They've booked him in for more chemo starting next week—the doctor said it's very common, and—"

Al closed his eyes over his feelings. When he opened them, his expression was grave but schooled. "I've got to go and see Celestina," he said softly. Then he brushed past her and was gone.

Sharon stomped her foot in frustration. It wasn't fair! All she wanted was a man, and all she had was a husband! It just wasn't fair!

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMMWMWMWMWMWMWM

Long into the night, Al lay awake, trying to reconcile himself to disappointment. There was the world he wanted, and the world he lived in. There was the life he longed for, and the life he had. The wife he ached for, and the woman lying beside him--the woman who had gone to sleep angry because he wasn't in the mood for sex. There was the test results he had needed, and the test results Stevie had been given. And there was the Al Calavicci he wanted to be, and the Al Calavicci he was.

The only thing in the Universe that hadn't let him down, he thought in the darkness as he stroked the five-pound bundle of fur and love, was Chester.


	37. Chapter ThirtySix

CHAPTER THRIRTY-SIX

Finally, the retching noises stopped and Sharon was able to relax. She heard a garbled, plaintive proclamation of suffering, followed by Al's voice, low, gravelly but consoling. The toilet flushed and the pipes within the thin dividing wall whistled their indignation. More soothing murmurs and a sniffling sigh. Chester keened piteously, empathizing with the sick child. The floor creaked as Al got to his feet, and the voices moved into the narrow corridor.

"That's a boy," Al was saying. "Almost there. Whoops! Hang onto my pant leg, buddy. That's it. We're almost there."

Sharon could almost see the expression of worshipful obedience that she knew the boy would be wearing. No matter how sick or grouchy he was, Esteban always put on his bravest face for Al. For some reason the aging aviator brought out the best in the little victim of leukemia. If he did the same thing for his subordinates, Sharon could see how he had obtained his chestful of ribbons.

They were in the bedroom now, and the voices were reduced to irregular humming. Sharon turned her eyes back to her painting.

It was an idea that she had been working on since Esteban's appendectomy, pouring her energies into careful sketches and preliminary color charts. Usually Sharon was opposed to over-thinking art. Art was emotion and spontaneity. Somehow, though, this painting was different. It had lacked something in the original concept: that extra spark that would make a good painting into a perfect painting. No longer. The conversations with Juan about Esteban's future had resolved the question and allowed her to start transferring her idea onto the canvas.

The picture was an impression of the night of Esteban's post-operative discharge. A starkly realistic light bulb spread tendrils of orange into a netherworld of the blue hues of the desert night. Colored silhouettes of abstract human forms were set against this background: a woman, a man, and on the man's lap, a child. They were not recognizable, but merely curvaceous shapes. The woman was done in a soft, rippling violet that after a week's careful attention almost had the quality of velvet. Her long hair was feathered on the side of her face inclined towards the man and the child, and on the other side it formed a smooth, veil-like bow. The man, vanishing into the midnight blues around him, was done in black. His shoulders were broader than the model's, but the gentle way his arms encircled the child had needed no adjusting. The child was slightly disproportionate—not enough to be unattractive, but just enough that one could sense there was something different about him. His feet were a lurid, sickening green that leeched up his legs: decay and sickness and ugliness that faded away into the radiant white that shone from his face, making brilliant the night. In small, shining hands he clutched pebbles: brown, grey, tawny and beige. One was luminous blue: a perfectly round, sapphire-colored marble with emerald continents and diamond clouds. And whenever the light exuding from the boy touched the man, the blackness seemed to withdraw, uncovering pale flesh laced with faint scars.

It was perfect, Sharon thought as she added another shadow to the woman's flowing skirt. It was the kind of painting you lived to create. An exact transfer of the concept to the reality.

In the bedroom, she could hear Al singing quietly. She paused to listen. It was that absurd little "adding song" that he seemed so fond of. She'd never heard it before Esteban's illness.

"_Two and two are four_," Al sang. Sharon wasn't certain what the key was, but she was pretty sure he wasn't quite on it. "_Four and four are eight. That's all you have on your businesslike mind_."

In all probability, it was the last thing on the child's mind, but that didn't detract from the simple sweetness of her battle-hardened husband singing to a little boy.

"_Inchworm, inchworm, measuring the marigolds. You and your arithmetic will probably go far_," Al continued. Then his voice grew quieter and Sharon could hear the floor groan under his insufficient weight as he crept from the room. "_Inchworm, inchworm, measuring the marigolds. Seems to me you'd stop and see how beau-ti-ful they are._"

For a moment, Sharon hoped that he would come into the studio, but of course the feet moved away towards the kitchen, and a minute later she heard the tinkling of ice in a glass. She sighed. They had made love a couple of times since his return from the hospital, but always in the wake of a petty argument that they never really resolved because they were too busy jumping on each other. The atmosphere between them had grown very cold indeed. They didn't talk anymore, except about Esteban. There was a lot of talk about him.

The second session of chemo was almost halfway through, and it was making the child horribly sick: much worse than the last time. All his hair was gone now, and he was a painfully skinny little wraith with a large, smooth head. He could eat only the most bland and simple foods, and even that not on the days he went in for I.V. treatments. According to Celestina, he slept all the time now. Al had become an anti-infective Nazi both in his own trailer and in Celestina's, for the doctors were constantly reminding him that every effort had to be made to keep the child from contracting any illness. His immune system was dangerously depressed.

Sharon was beginning to think that Al was dangerously depressed, too. He didn't have the same spring in his step, though he always had a smile on his face when there was anyone to see. He was more prone to nightmares than he had been, and more than once she had awakened in the middle of the night to find herself and Juan, still busy with the new library building and still residing on their sofa, alone in the trailer: dog and master gone, but both vehicles still there and no light up the street at Celestina's. She didn't know where Al went at such times, but she didn't really want to ask. It wasn't really any of her business.

His shoulder was healing, although the physiotherapist he was seeing said he would have to lay off the heavy lifting for at least two months. He still wore a sling around the house, mostly because five days ago Sharon had caught him trying to carry Esteban from the 'Vette to the house. After that fight, she had mandated that he use the support to remind himself that he was recovering and he should damned well take it easy!

Sharon absent-mindedly put her brush in the turpentine, set down her palette and left the studio. It was unusual for Al not to lie down for a nap with the child. Maybe it was an opportunity for a little heart-to-heart.

He was sitting at the kitchen table, his back to the living room. A nearly-empty glass of whiskey and ice was at his elbow, he had a steno pad under one hand, and he was bent low over some kind of magazine. Sharon approached.

"What's this?" she asked, coming up behind him and working her hand on his right shoulder. He hissed a little in surprise and looked up.

"Oh, hi," he said. "Nothing. It's nothing."

It wasn't _nothing_: it was an auto trader magazine with ads for second-hand motorcycles. Sharon smiled. "Thinking of buying a toy?"

"Actually, no," Al said. "I'm thinking of getting rid of the Corvette."

Sharon rounded the table and sat across from him. He drained his glass and reached for the bottle to refill it. "Really?" she said.

"Yeah. Just a thought. You know, and replace it with something else."

Sharon grinned. "That's a good idea," she said. "You know, I always thought it would be neat to have a Mercedes. There are all kinds of things you could do with that sleek, flat hood…"

He let out a guffaw of disbelief. "You'd buy a Mercedes Benz just to _repaint_ it?"

"No," she said. "I'd buy a Mercedes Benz because it's a beautiful car… and then personalize it!"

"You're something else," he told her with an odd look. Then he turned back to the magazine. "Actually, I was thinking of getting a bike."

"A motorcycle? At your age?"

Al glared at her. "What does age have to do with it?" he demanded. "The day I'm too old for a motorcycle is the day you can dig a hole six feet long and three feet wide and put me in it!"

"More like a hole five and a half feet long," Sharon teased. He glowered, so she laughed. "Take it easy, sailor. I'm not trying to get in a dig on your manhood or anything. Why do you want a motorcycle?"

Al shrugged. "It's cheaper to run, they're terrific to ride. I might be able to cut some miles off the commute to the Project if I could go off-road a bit—"

"You are _not_ taking a bike off-road!" Sharon cried.

He looked like he wanted to argue this, but instead he thumped his hand down on the table. "Look, the 'Vette's a waste," he said. "It's pricy to run, pricy to tune up, and there's no reason we need it. I can use your van when I take Stevie to the hospital, and I could get to and from work on the bike."

Sharon paused. How serious was the financial question? Al had always seemed to think that the money and effort the Corvette required was worth it. Were things so serious that he was actually thinking of getting rid of it for economic reasons?

"Besides," Al added with a smirk; "I really would love to ride a bike again."

Reminiscing was better than fighting, and infinitely preferable to worrying. "Again?" Sharon said.

"Sure," Al said. "My first car was a bike. A '48 Harvey Knucklehead."

"Knucklehead seems appropriate. But you were fourteen in '48," Sharon pointed out.

Al shrugged. "I got it second-hand off a scrap dealer the year I graduated high school. It'd been in some kinda crash on Long Island. It was a steal."

Sharon laughed at the thought. "Your first car was a smashed-up motorcycle?"

"I'll have you know I'm a damned fine mechanic!" Al told her. "All it needed was a bit of tender, loving care. Inside of two months I had the fastest bike around." His eyes twinkled with nostalgia. "I used to head downtown and find some company. You ever rode behind a guy on a bike?"

"One or two," Sharon said. "Rich had one in high school."

"I can't really imagine Rich on a bike," Al laughed.

Sharon shrugged. "Believe it or not," she said. "That phase didn't last long, though. Only long enough for him to find a good car." She looked down at her paint-stained hands. "Well, I've got to go and wash up," she told him. "You do whatever you want with the Corvette. It's your car. But _no_ off-road biking!"

"Aye-aye, ma'am," Al said, turning back to his computations.

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That evening after Celestina was back from the dry cleaner's and Al was gone to Starbright, Sharon dug around the house looking for her husband's bank statements and VISA bills. She couldn't find them. Damn him, he must be keeping them at the Project! How bad were things getting, if he was trying to hide the state of his finances from her?

A week later, Al sold the Corvette. Apparently he got a very good price for it, at least from the allusions he made. Certainly, Sharon imagined, his little _modifications_ to the engine would have made it a popular buy. He bought a bike shortly after that. It had to be at least ten years old: a big, durable monster that certainly hadn't spent most of its life in the desert. It looked like it had come from the Midwest: its bodywork was rusting and anything but attractive. Sharon couldn't quite believe her eyes. Nevertheless, she endured the ordeal of public transit to and from her classes for three weeks while Al was without a drivable vehicle of his own. Three Sundays was all it took for him to overhaul the whole thing. He gave it a sleek black coat of enamel, and polished the chrome until it glittered. When he was done, she had to admit it was a gorgeous machine.

It was some consolation that he always wore a helmet, and he had a hard-wearing leather jacket and chaps. Still, she couldn't delude herself into thinking he was riding safely, and she often wondered what it would do to his shoulder if he took a tumble while ripping through the desert at ninety miles an hour on that thing.


	38. Chapter ThirtySeven

Note: Sorry, folks! It's Science Fiction time! (Let's be honest: we knew the day would come.)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Al trudged down the corridor and fumbled for the key to his quarters. It had been one of those days. He hadn't had five minutes' downtime since Wednesday morning, when he had awakened to take Stevie to his last day of his second session of chemotherapy. It was now three o'clock on Thursday afternoon. Having worked straight through the night trying for the ten thousandth time to catch up to his workload, he just wasn't capable of coherent thought any longer. He closed the door and slumped back against it, sliding to the floor and reaching to untie his boots. He was cold again. Damned short-sleeved duty uniform.

He got his feet free of the constrictive garments and hauled himself back up, stumbling wearily through to the little kitchenette. His stomach snarled, and he groped for the bread. His mouth was too dry to chew, so he pulled out a bottle of bourbon from the well-stocked liquor cupboard and poured himself some a generous helping. With the aid of the fluid he managed to choke down some nourishment. His stomach rebelled for a minute, until it realized that this was what it had been asking for. Al took another drink, then opened the diminutive fridge and routed around for some salami and cheese. These were the makings of a very basic sandwich. He debated digging out the mustard, but by then the hunger pangs were louder than the protestations about esthetics so he forgot it and took his lunch (and breakfast, and supper the night before, and lunch before that, too) into the tiny living room. There, he collapsed gratefully on the couch.

Who would have thought that goddamned paperwork could be so thoroughly exhausting? He had done some hard labor in his time, but this was unprecedented. He could swear his hands were cramping…

It wouldn't be so discouraging, he reflected morosely, if only they were making some progress. Doctor Eleese's life's blood might be running test after inconclusive test, but the committee was starting to get impatient. The worst aspect of this was that he'd had several calls from Congressman Davies, graciously put through by Human Resources despite Al's request that all such calls be filtered. Davies didn't even really want to talk about the Project: he wanted to reminisce about Vietnam. Al didn't understand it. Why would _anyone_ want to reminisce about Vietnam?

There was something different about Les Davies these days. He was always hinting at something, like he was trying to wheedle some kind of admission out of Al. It didn't make sense.

"Let's be honest, Calavicci. Nothing's making much sense right now," Al muttered, draining his glass and swallowing the last of his sandwich. He was damned tired. There was an urge to fall asleep right here, but he knew he'd be more comfortable in the bed. His shoulder was healing, but it wasn't healed. Unusual positions caused discomfort, and he didn't need unnecessary discomfort.

With a grunt of weariness he hoisted himself off of the sofa and made his way blindly to the bedroom. He fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, and with some effort managed to strip down to his underwear. Leaving the uniform in a crumpled heap on the floor, he rolled into bed and dragged the blankets over his body. Within minutes he was warm.

Al had just enough presence of mind to set the alarm for two hours before losing consciousness altogether.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMMWMWMWMWMWM_

He had scarcely closed his eyes when there was a pounding on the door. Suppressing a moan of frustration, Al rolled out of bed. It took him a minute to remember whose room he was in, and when it occurred to him that whoever was at the door wasn't expecting to see the Project Administrator wearing only an undershirt and jockey shorts, he hurried to the closet. Two minute's frantic dressing had him in a set of civvies that he kept on hand for the really long nights. He raked a hand over his head, trying to tame the curls, and hurried for the door, glancing quickly at the clock and noting with some resentment that he'd had all of eight and a half minutes' sleep.

He opened the door to see one of the young chemists standing in the corridor. The kid's eyes went wide.

"Captain Calavicci!" he cried. "We were scared you'd left for the day! You have to come down and see something right away!"

Al's heart was in his mouth as he closed the door to his suit and strode off down the hall next to the scientist. What kind of disaster had struck now, and could he deal with it in his current sleepless state?

That was a stupid question. Of course he could. There had been times when he had counted himself lucky to get eight minutes' sleep in a week!

"What happened?" he demanded as they stopped to wait for the elevator.

"We've been working on the new gel coolants," the young man said. "Doctor Thorgard was experimenting with biochemical polymers, you remember?"

"Yes," Al said briskly. He had had to sing a pretty song to get Congress to cough up the dough for _those_ reageants...

"Well, we… I can't describe it, sir: you'll have to see it for yourself!"

Abruptly, Al realized that the boy was frantic with jubilation, not anxiety. His heart began to hammer in his chest. A discovery? Progress?

The door opened, and Al was out of it like a shot. This time, the scientist had to trot to keep up. He burst into the lab, past the lounge alcove with the vending machines and into the main room. At the far bench, where Thorgard customarily worked, a large group of scientists were gathered around one of the superheated polymer baths. Al hastened across the room, and they parted for him.

Thorgard, wearing gloves and Plexiglas goggles, was reaching into the bath to retrieve a beaker of polymer. Al blinked, rubbed his eyes, and did a double take. The blue goo inside the beaker was glowing, emitting light of an almost neon quality. The aging chemist glanced at the Project Administrator, smiled, and proceeded with his work. A large glass compounding slab had been laid out on the counter, and while Al watched, Thorgard carefully poured the contents of the beaker onto it. The polymer was cohesive, and held a fine ribbon shape as it fell and landed. With a steady hand belying his age, Thorgard traced out a series of loops, lines and curlicues. As the last of the phosphorescent sludge landed, the other scientists burst into a spontaneous round of applause.

"What is it?" Al asked, fascinated by the glowing substance.

"I'm not sure," Thorgard admitted. "It glows."

"I can see that," Al told him, drawing closer. "Does it keep glowing?"

"As far as we can tell." Thorgard motioned to one of his assistants, who went to a fume hood and came back with a tray bearing several Petri dishes of the same stuff. "We set those out this morning. As you can see, they're still luminescent."

Al reached out to touch one of the samples. It had the texture of hard plastic, and really did look uncannily like a neon light, especially the thin rods that Thorgard had spread on the slab.

"It can be re-melted and re-molded," the scientist explained. "As far as we can tell, it has no practical application for the accelerators, but—"

"But it's spontaneously generating light!" Al exclaimed enthusiastically.

"I thought you'd appreciate it," Thorgard said. "We were going to run some tests, if you don't think it's a waste of the Project's resources…"

"No, go ahead!" Al said. "Anything you want. This is the first exciting thing that's happened in months! In fact… my first degree was in chemistry. Would you mind…"

"Be my guest," Thorgard said. "Marlie, get Captain Calavicci a coat and some goggles."

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWMWMWMMWMWMWWMWM_

Al spent the rest of the night experimenting on Thorgard's new polymer. It melted at 287 degrees and boiled at 983. It would condense in an even layer on a glass surface. When cooled, it exuded light in darkness and under artificial illumination at hugely varying spectrums. In fact, they couldn't figure out when, if ever, it stopped glowing. It had many of the properties of plastic, and as far as they could tell after giving pieces to the lab mice to chew, it was non-toxic. It emitted the equivalent of 2.39 candles luminescence per square inch of substance: enough to read by. It didn't generate heat, and it could be shattered upon heavy impact. Thorgard ran other tests, like tensile and flexural strength, as well.

In the end there didn't seem to be any practical use for it, but it was very pretty. Around eleven, when Al was beginning to get a little goofy from lack of sleep, he started to think what interesting jewelry it would make. The trouble was, of course, that it was too brittle. It would need a base, a pendant or something, onto which it could stick.

He went into the supply stores to pick up some petroleum jelly for Thorgard, most of the others having gone home or to bed. Overtired and not thinking clearly, he opened the wrong drawer. It was full of junk left over from the early days when everyone was getting to know each other—before his time. Back then, each person's clearance level had been identified by a colored button like the kind political candidates passed out to loyal supporters. They had progressed from green, which was minimal clearance, to blue, to purple, to red, to orange, to yellow, to pink, and finally to black for the top-secret staff employed in the actual sites of investigation. There were still clutches of these buttons lying around here and there like pirate treasure, and this drawer had at least three dozen of them, most of which were black.

Al didn't give it a second thought, closing the drawer and finding the desired container of lubricant. He went back into the room and surveyed the mess of polymer-adorned glassware with some amusement. Fortunately, all they had to do was heat it up and the polymer would melt off. Otherwise it was pretty much irremovable.

Then inspiration struck. Al ran back to the storeroom as if the devil was on his heels, returning with a handful of the buttons. Thorgard watched in puzzlement as Al took a beaker of the molten blue polymer and began to carefully pour it onto the surface of one of the sable disks. It took him three attempts to manage it, but he made a clumsy five-pointed star. Grinning like a child proud of some artistic accomplishment, he returned the beaker to the bath and motioned at his work.

"Starbright," he said.

Thorgard laughed. "Lovely," he agreed. "Too bad we can't make one for everybody."

"Can't we?" Al asked.

Thorgard was by this time in a playful mood too, and with a pair of brilliant minds on the problem it was inevitable that some kind of solution be reached. Two one-ounce glass syringes were quickly converted into the tools for the task, and by marking their paths first with chalk, they managed very nicely. Al was on his seventh when he realized he should have been home six hours ago.

Apologizing to Thorgard, he took his leave and hastened up to his office. He had one of the four private lines on the property there: the others were in his quarters, in Human Resources, and on Sub-Level Omega. The latter phone had never been used. Next to it, engraved in a steel panel on the wall, were the numbers they had to call in the event of a core meltdown.

Al dialed home and waited, expecting the phone to ring several times before either Sharon or Juan woke up to answer it. Instead, it didn't have time to ring even once.

"Where the hell are you?" an angry voice demanded.

"I…" Al was completely derailed. His moment's hesitation gave Sharon the time she needed to launch into her tirade.

"Here I am, thinking you've gone and killed yourself on that bike, lying in the ditch in the desert somewhere with a dislocated shoulder, kidnapped by the Hell's Angels, God knows what, and _you have the nerve to call at three in the morning_?" she cried.

"Sharon, calm down. I'm—"

"Of all the thoughtless, selfish, arrogant bastards—"

"I'm at the Project, damn it!" Al shouted back, angered more by her ridiculous worries than by her tone. "I work, you know! Things get busy—"

"If you had a normal job I wouldn't have to live like this!" Sharon yelled. "Do you have any idea what it's like sitting by the phone, not knowing if your husband's alive or dead? It's not the first time this has happened, either! Damn you, Calavicci, are you trying to kill me?"

"I forgot it was a night when I was expected home!" Al snapped. "We've had an interesting discovery, and—"

"Oh, really?" Sharon retorted. "What?"

Al couldn't help the delighted smile that spread over his lips as he fingered the button he wore, with its raised star like neon light. "It's this polymer that glows bright blue," he said. "Doctor Thorgard and I have been having a great time. We're making these buttons—"

"Liar!" Sharon shrieked. "You lying bastard, you expect me to believe that? You—_you_!"

There was a cacophonous slam, and the line went dead. Al hung up, waited thirty seconds, and tried to dial again. Busy signal. She had taken the phone off the hook.

He shrugged. Oh, well, he thought. She'd calm down. In the meantime, he had a pet project on the go downstairs!

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Sharon slammed down the receiver so hard that it ricocheted off the cradle and hit the floor, bouncing on its cord.

"That bastard!" she screamed, throwing the glass she had been sipping whiskey from all night so that it shattered against the wall. He was out with another woman! She had known all along he was cheating on her: no on in his right mind would sleep over at work! He was shacking up with some young, pretty thing, while she was sitting at home, agonizing over him. Well, that was enough! It was enough! She'd had it! She wasn't going to do it anymore!

Tears of rage and indignation streamed down her cheeks. "That bastard, that lying wop bastard, how stupid does he think I am?" she howled, kicking the counter so that the dishes in the overhead cupboards rattle.

She couldn't stand it! There was a tiny voice in the back of her head reminding her what a great guy Al was, sensitive and kind and hard-working, and how good he was with Stevie, how generous with his money. The other voice was angry, unspeakably angry that he would lie to her like this!

And if he wasn't lying? If he really had just lost track of the day, got wrapped up in the excitement of a new discovery? Then that meant his mind was going. He had shown signs of it before, when he awoke in the night thinking he was still in Vietnam—ten years ago, in Vietnam!—and now it could be intruding into his waking life too. If he _had_ just forgotten her, then that meant he was losing his sense of time and place, just like Dad had…

The prospect terrified her. She would much rather believe he was deliberately stringing her out, even if it meant he had rejected her.

"Bastard!" she roared, trying to fuel her rage as a safeguard against the fear that was gnawing at her heart.

Juan came into the room and grabbed her hands before she could smash them against the kitchen window in her wroth. "Sharon, stop!" he cried. He had taken, gradually, to calling her by her first name.

"No!" she cried, fighting him. "I don't want to stop! He's a no-good, lying guinea bastard, and I won't stop! I w—"

Her eyes met his. She couldn't say who made the first move, but all of a sudden she was on her toes and he was bending to kiss her. It was a wild, impassioned kiss. She was taking out her frustrations and feeding off a dormant desire, and he was obviously very experienced. Obviously he wasn't the good little choirboy he made out to Celestina that he was. They parted and Sharon gasped for air. There was a brief moment of remorse for betraying Al in this way, but then Juan leaned in again, and all that was forgotten. The habit of anger shifting into the passions of the bedroom was too ingrained to be fought tonight. It was three in the morning, she was tipsy, she was tired, and she just wanted a man, damn it. She just wanted a man.

The next thing she knew Juan swept her up into his arms and was carrying her to the bedroom while she fumbled with his shirt, kissing all the way.

As if he knew that it wasn't right, Chester began to bark and howl, but Juan closed the door behind them and soon the roar of the fires of desire drowned out the terrier's loyal protestations.


	39. Chapter ThirtyEight

Note: Excerpts from Marvin K. Mooney, Will You Please Go Now! © 1972 by Dr. Seuss

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Running on adrenaline and the endorphins of fifty-five sleepless hours, Al tore along the dirt roads, speeding triumphantly towards home. It was going to be a good weekend. After a few hours in the morning to report on Starbright's new toy and make arrangements to mass-produce the buttons (Why? Because he was the Project Administrator and he said so, that's why!), he was free until Monday.

It was perfect: exactly the gimmick they needed to impress the Committee. The polymer was more or less useless to the government—unless maybe they made it into highway markers or sold the patent at a profit to a toy company. However, it the senators sitting on their backsides in Washington and fretting over the Project's bills wouldn't see it that way for a long time yet. Al wasn't sure if it was nice to treat grown men like five-year-olds, but that was precisely what politicians were like. With abstracts and advanced science they were useless, but give them something tangible and easy to understand (and it didn't hurt if it was also shiny and blue!) and they would fawn over it like so many happy babies. This serendipitous discovery might, if used properly, be exactly what Starbright needed to placate the Senate and buy themselves a few more months' peace and quiet.

Quite aside from that, it was the first triumph of any kind they'd had in months, and Al was determined to relish the euphoria of the moment as long as he possibly could.

There were other reasons, too, that he was looking forward to the next couple of days. Stevie had been off of chemotherapy now for almost two days, and he was bound to start perking up again. Recently, as the life-saving drugs had made him ever more ill, Al had found himself hard pressed to reconcile his all-encompassing hatred of the disease with his instinctive loathing of any therapy, however beneficial, that seemed to morph a happy child into a piteous invalid. It was so hard to watch Stevie suffer, and any respite from the boy's wretchedness brought a proportionate increase in his protector's spirits.

Furthermore, Al thought as the city began to rise like an advancing army on the horizon, he was feeling better than he had in weeks, and it would be a good weekend to have a little fun with the missus.

The trailer park was quiet. All the adults were at work. All the children were at school. Al passed an elderly couple having breakfast on a card table set on their sparse lawn, and thought he saw movement behind the tightly drawn blinds of one of the trailers he had privately labeled as dealerships.

He parked his bike and probed with his foot for the kickstand, then removed his helmet, and then the dusty jacket and chaps. The front door was open, so he only needed to open the screen before he could shuffle into the narrow corridor and wrestle off his boots.

From the living room he could hear a sound that delighted him even more than yesterday's revelation had.

"_You can go on skates. You can go on skis. You can go in a hat. But please go. Please!_" Sharon read. "_I don't care. You can go by bike. You can go on a Zike-Bike if you like. If you like, you can go in an old blue shoe—"_

"Mithta Al have blue thoes," Stevie lisped happily.

"That's right!" Sharon laughed. "He does, doesn't he?"

"Yup, yup," the boy said.

"_Just go, go, GO! Please do, do, DO!_" she continued. "_Marvin K. Mooney, I don't care how. Marvin K. Mooney, will you please GO NOW!_"

"Go NOW!" the boy repeated.

"_You can go on stilts. You can go by fish._ What about that, Esteban? Would you like to ride a fish?" she asked.

Stevie giggled. "Nope!" he said. "Not me!"

"No, I wouldn't either," Sharon laughed. "_You can go in a Crunk-Car if you wish. If you wish you can go by lion's tail. Or stamp yourself… and go by mail! Marvin K. Mooney! Don't you know the time has come to…_"

"_Go, go, GO_!" Stevie crowed happily.

"Go, go, go, that's right!" cheered Sharon.

Chester, less oblivious to the outside world than the two humans, came trotting into the kitchen to investigate the familiar noises. He let out a yelp of joy, and Al bent swiftly to scoop him into his arms, silencing him with pets before he could alert Sharon to the intruder. "_You can go by balloon… or broomstick.. OR! You can go by camel in a bureau drawer! You can go by Bumble-Boat or jet. I don't care HOW you go: ju-ust…_"

"_GET!_" supplied the child. Al wondered how many times they had read this book together, that Stevie had his responses memorized.

"_Get yourself a Ga-Zoom_!"

Stevie let loose an eager giggle of anticipation. Chester had made his way up to Al's shoulder, his forepaws on his master's collarbone, and he was starting to lick his ear and cheekbone. Al wiggled his eyebrows a little and massaged the dog's back contentedly.

"_You can go with a…_"

Sharon paused for the child to catch on, and then they both shouted together, _"**BOOM**_" Al jumped, surprised by the sheer volume.

"_Marvin, Marvin, Marvin, will you leave this room?_" Sharon continued. "_Marvin K. Mooney, I don't care HOW! Marvin K Mooney! Will—_"

"_You pleathe GO NOW!_" Stevie exclaimed jubilantly.

"_I said…_"

"_GO!_"

"_And…_"

"_GO!_"

"_I meant. The time had come, so…_"

"_Marvin WENT_!" the boy concluded. Sharon burst into applause and ululations of delight that the child joined in wholeheartedly.

As their celebration began to wind down, Al came around the corner. "That was great!" he enthused, grinning as Stevie clapped his hands and cried out a greeting. "How you doin', sport?" he asked, running the hand not holding the dog over the boy's bald head and sitting down next to him. Stevie gave him a bear hug, not as strong as they once had been, but still firm. It evoked a pang of memory that raised a lump in Al's through. Oh, Trudy, honey…

He glanced up at Sharon, who looked absolutely flabbergasted by his unexpected entrance. "Hey, gorgeous," he said. "Look, about last night…"

Sharon flushed and looked away. "I don't want to talk about last night," she said hastily.

"It's okay," Al said. "I deserved every word of it. I'm sorry. I got distracted, and… Hey!" he said brightly, his eyes catching sight of the button over his breast pocket. He let go of Stevie to fumble with it. "Take a look: we can't figure out how to stop it from doing that. It's great!"

Sharon looked at the glowing blue star traced on the black surface. She did a little double take and grabbed it. "It glows!" she said. "You really did make glowing plastic…"

"Pretty pointless, I know," Al allowed. "But still, I mean, it's pretty neat!"

"I have to… I've got to…" Sharon gestured vaguely. "I'll be back."

She thrust the button back into Al's hand and hastened from the room. The bathroom door slammed urgently. Al started after her, momentarily bewildered.

"Thtar," Stevie said, fingering the trinket and drawing Al's focus elsewhere.

"That's right, buddy," Al said. "_Starlight, Starbright. First star I see tonight. Wish I may, wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight_."

"Mithta Al?" the little boy said softly. "I have a with."

"Yeah?" Al said. "What's your wish?" He expected to hear a wish for health, or for the father the child couldn't remember, or any one of a dozen things that Stevie should have, but couldn't. The answer almost floored him.

"I with for chocolate ithe cream," Stevie said. "Pleathe?"

Al laughed out loud, and Chester barked in response. He reached out an arm to draw the boy into a hug. "Sure, buddy," he said. "Sure. We can get you some ice cream."

Stevie only had two spoonfuls before he pushed the dish away, saying that it didn't taste good and he was sleepy. Al accepted the explanation without question, and agreed that he was sleepy, too. Sharon was still in the bathroom, though what she was doing in there Al couldn't imagine. He helped Stevie change, then peeled off his own sweaty civvies and replacing them with pajamas. Then they settled into the bed with Chester between them. The boy fell asleep first, but Al wasn't far behind.

When he awoke it was to Celestina's gentle and tentative touch. Al looked up, confused and for a moment seeing the long dark hair as belonging to Ruthie. Then he shook his head to clear his vision and grinned. "Three o'clock already?" he asked.

"The door was open," Celestina explained; "so I come in. Señora Calavicci, she is gone to her lesson?"

"I guess so." Al sat up, carefully slipping his arm out from under Stevie's chest. He scrubbed his face with the heels of his hands. "He seems to be feeling pretty good today," he said. "But tired."

"Sí, yes, he is always tired," the mother said sadly, looking at him. "Señor Calavicci, I am afraid."

"Why?" Al asked gently, taking her arm and guiding her to sit next to him on the mattress.

"I am afraid…" she repeated. "I am afraid I bring trouble to you."

"No, no," Al said. "No, honey, you don't bring trouble. It's no trouble. I'm glad we can help take care of Stevie. He's got to get better. He's just got to."

Celestina shook her head. "No, I—" Then his words struck home and her brow furrowed. "Esteban," she said. "Esteban. Señor, will he die?"

"Not if I can help it!" Al exclaimed, momentarily forgetting that the child in question was fast asleep not three feet away. "Not if I can help it," he repeated, more softly, reaching out to stroke Celestina's face. "We're going to do our best," he promised. "He's doing really well."

She looked at him with debilitating trust in her eyes. Al gripped her hand with such force that one of his joints popped in protest. "Celestina," he said, burying his own doubts in the need to be strong for her. "He's doing really well. We'll get him through this."

The tiniest smile visited her lips. "Sí, Señor. Sí. We get him through this."

"All right," Al said, grinning for her benefit. "Now, what do you say you and I get out into that kitchen and cook up a big communal supper?"

She frowned in puzzlement.

"You and Juan and Stevie should stay for supper," he rephrased. "You and I can cook up one heck of a meal."

"We cook together? In your kitchen?" Celestina asked.

"Sí," Al said. "What do you say?"

"I go and bring things from home," she said, something almost akin to delight in her eyes. "I come straight back."

"All right, then," Al said, straightening the covers over the sleeping boy.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

Sharon returned home half an hour later to find Celestina kneading the dough for flour tortillas, and Al busy chopping vegetables as if the fate of the world depended upon it. She passed through the kitchen with scarcely more than a casual comment and certainly without looking Al in the eyes. After making a visit to her studio to drop off her bag, she went into the bedroom where Stevie lay sleeping. Al spared a moment to wonder what was eating at her, and then returned to his work, which was an excellent distraction from the fatigue that was beginning to encroach dangerously on his consciousness.

By the time Juan returned from the building site, Al was setting the table and Celestina shredding a block of cheese. Sharon and Stevie were still in the bedroom, and Al was willing to bet that the child was still asleep. Chester was prancing around the kitchen, excited by the aromas and the novelty of having two people cooking _at the same time_! Juan went for a shower, and emerged in a peasant smock and jeans. Celestina kissed his cheek as she moved a platter of homemade tortillas to the table. Her spirits had been rising progressively as she worked, and by now she was almost jubilant.

There was a soft cooing sound, and Al turned to see Stevie standing on the edge of the living room rug, one leg of his spaceship pajamas pushed up around his knee. A little hand rubbed at his eyes and he yawned.

"Hey, sport!" Al exclaimed, reaching out to rub his shoulder. "Did you have a good sleep?"

Stevie nodded. "Thleep," he mumbled.

"How's Sharon?" Al asked. "Is she coming out?"

Stevie shook his head. "Auntie thleepin'," he said. He had such a terrible time with her name that Sharon had told him to call her Auntie instead—something Al couldn't quite get used to. "She thad."

"Sad?" Al asked.

"Yup, real thad," Stevie said. "Cry and cry and cry."

Al frowned. "Are you sure? Auntie Sharon was crying?"

"Yup, yup," Stevie said as he tottered towards his mother. "Dinner?" he asked.

Celestina kissed the crown of his denuded head and began to talk to him quietly. Bewildered by the allegation of tears from his buoyant and happy wife, Al slipped past Juan and made his way to the bedroom.

Sharon was lying with her face buried in his pillow, apparently fast asleep. Al closed the door and drew near the bed, sitting next to her and putting out a hand to touch her back.

She awoke with a gasp and rolled over. He could, indeed, see tear-tracks on her face, emblazoned in her mascara. "Al!" she exclaimed abruptly.

"Hey," he murmured, digging out his handkerchief and wiping away the offending paint. "What's wrong?"

She snatched the cloth from him and went about damage control herself, sitting up and answering with a defiant and defensive voice. "Nothing," she said. "Nothing."

Al moved closer and curled his hand around her hip. She pulled away. "If it were nothing, you wouldn't be crying," he reasoned gently.

"I said it's nothing!" she cried.

"Has something happened?" Al pressed.

She looked at him wildly, something of the look of the cornered animal in her eyes. "Happened?" she cried.

"You've had some bad news about your father, haven't you?" Al asked.

"Oh…" she exhaled. "Oh. Dad. No, no. Nothing's wrong with dad."

"Then what's the matter?" Al asked.

She fell silent, scrubbing at her face with the handkerchief.

"Well?" he prompted.

No reply.

"Please, tell me…"

Still, silence.

Al stiffened. Okay, so she was giving him the cold shoulder. Probably still pissed off about last night. "So don't tell me," he said coldly, getting to his feet. "Supper will be on the table in five minutes."

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

It should have been a cheerful meal. Celestina was feeling much better, and Stevie actually managed to eat a tortilla filled with cheese and lettuce. Al tried to keep the conversation going, but Sharon only stared silently at her food, and Juan seemed almost afraid to speak. It made no sense, so Al didn't worry about it. Eventually, the meal was over and the dishes washed, and the child again starting to wilt with weariness. Celestina took him home, and Al went for a shower. When he came out, Juan was settled on the sofa, already asleep, and Sharon was lying in bed and staring at the ceiling.

Al slid in beside her. "Come on, doll," he murmured seductively, kissing her neck and curling his arm around her abdomen. "Please forgive me. I didn't mean to forget to call."

Sharon jerked free of his grasp. "Just leave me alone!" she cried, turning her back on him. "Go to sleep and leave me alone!"

Long after she lost consciousness, Al lay awake, his weary body aching and his tired mind unable to let go because he was wondering, over and over again, how he had screwed up the marriage this time.


	40. Chapter ThirtyNine

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

She had tasted the forbidden fruit, and now she found she couldn't stop partaking of it.

Perhaps if she had felt any moral obligation to be faithful to Al, Sharon might have tried a little harder. The truth was, though, that she had never really seen the point of monogamy. Though she had managed to graduate high school without losing her virginity—mostly because immediately afterwards she would have lost her life in a gristly case of filicide at the hands of her mother—her early experiments in fidelity had failed miserably. Heinrich had never cheated on her, but he had mighty repressive ideas about how a household should be run: ideas completely at odds with her own notions. That marriage had lasted all of two years. After that, there had been a string of wild flings in college: boyfriends who cheated on her as often as she cheated on them. Then into adulthood with partner after partner, none staying too long. Some she left, some left her. She moved on when she got tired of any one man. Why should this be different, just 'cause she had a wedding band and a licence? After the initial period of guilt, Sharon had settled almost completely into her duplicitous role, and the prickings of her conscience grew ever more innocuous.

It would certainly have been different if Al had been around more. At least then it would have been _harder_ to cheat. As it was, he was out of the house so much that she and Juan found it absurdly easy to find peace for their trysts. Esteban finished his detox period and went in for more chemotherapy, so three nights a week Al was sleeping at the Project. The only thing holding the amorous couple back was Sharon's occasional burst of guilt.

Then, three days before the first anniversary of their wedding, Al came down with a cold.

He'd been going through life at his usual breakneck pace, and so Sharon hadn't noticed the growing exhaustion or the heaviness of his voice until he called on Thursday morning. She had Esteban on the kitchen counter, bony feet in the sink while she gave him a sponge bath. Usually Celestina saw to the boy's hygiene, but today he'd had the inclination to eat, and everything had come back up while he was sleeping, so he needed the wash badly. The phone rang, and Sharon let the child take another ice cube from the bowl they were snacking from together. His little mouth was full of sores now, and the ice seemed to soothe them.

"Hello?" she answered, picking up the receiver and making her way back towards the child.

The voice on the other end of the line was thick and nasal. "Sharon? I'm sick."

"What?" she exclaimed in alarm. "How sick?"

"It's just a cold," Al said; "but I can't come home."

She frowned. "Why not?" She moved back towards the counter and wet a fresh washcloth, with which she rubbed Esteban's stomach.

"Because if Stevie catches it he might not be able to shake it!" Al cried, as if this was painfully self-evident or something. "Now, here's what you gotta do—I know you're gonna hate it, but it's important, and you have to do it, you hear me?"

"Of course I hear you," Sharon said crossly. "Do you think I'm deaf?"

"No, I don't think you're deaf!" Al said in annoyance. "Just listen. It's very important."

"Okay, okay," Sharon said. "So tell me this earth-shatteringly important thing that I'm supposed to do."

"I need you to clean the house—I know you don't want to!" he continued hastily, before she could tell him where to stick his suggestion. "I know that, but this is important. I need you to wash everything I might have touched the last couple days. Put a cup of bleach in a gallon pail full of warm water—"

"Where the hell am I supposed to get a gallon pail?" she demanded.

"I keep one on the shelf in the laundry room—"

"Laundry closet," Sharon corrected snarkily.

"_Laundry closet_," Al said between clenched teeth. "On the shelf in the laundry _closet_. You know. The one I use when I'm scrubbing the floor?"

"Okay, okay. Half a cup of bleach—"

"A _whole_ cup of bleach," he snapped. "It's under the sink in the kitchen. A whole cup of bleach in a gallon pail of warm water. Wipe down the table, the doorknobs, the T.V., anything you think I would've touched. The handle on the toilet. The sinks. I mean everything, Sharon, okay?"

"That's ridiculous," she said. "You think if he catches your cold he's going to get it off a doorknob? For crying out loud, Calavicci, you were running around the world with the kid yesterday! You sat right next to him at the hospital, you drove him home, and then you went to lie down for a nap with him!"

Al's voice was suddenly low and tremulous with terror. "Don't you think I know that?" he whispered.

Sharon's heart melted. He was worried sick about the kid. "All right," she said. "I'll clean everything I can think of—"

"The phone! Wash the phone" Al added. "The steering wheel and the door handles and the seatbelts in the van. The toaster… I had toast for breakfast yesterday morning…"

"Relax," Sharon said. "I've got an imagination. I'll take care of it."

An earthshaking sneeze fizzled across the phone lines. "And the bedding. Put the bedding in the wash, hot water—"

"It's already in," Sharon said. "For God's sake, take a minute to blow your nose!"

There was a muffled honking sound. Al's voice came back, thicker than before, but no less astute. "What do you mean it's already in?" he demanded.

"Breakfast didn't agree with Esteban. It came back up all over the bed," Sharon said, not bothering to hide her resentment of her unpaid position as a damned nanny.

"Is he okay?" Al asked. "What's he doing now?"

"Chewing an ice cube," Sharon said, looking at the little boy in front of her.

"Uh?"

"I gave him some ice to chew on," she said. "He likes it."

"Can I talk to him—no, wait, don't get the phone anywhere near him until you wash it."

Sharon couldn't quite believe she was hearing this. "You want me to leave you on the line while I wash the phone?" she asked incredulously.

He sneezed again. "No, no. Just take care of it, okay?"

"I will," she promised. Then something occurred to her. "How long will you be staying at the Project?"

"I dunno," Al said. "Probably just a couple days. I'll talk to one of the doctors on staff, see what they think. I'll be back Sunday night if I can… you'll have to take Stevie in for chemo tomorrow. It's easy. The nurse at the front desk will help you find the right place. They're really great: just tell 'em you don't know what you're doing. He likes it if you read to him for the first hour or so, but after that it's too hard for him to focus, so it's better if you just sing or something. He loves 'Inchworm', and '_Volare_' and 'I Wanna Hold Your Hand'. If he throws up—"

"Okay, okay, I can handle it," Sharon promised. "I just want you to know that this is ridiculous. You're overreacting. I don't think it's necessary to disinfect the whole house, and I certainly don't think that quarantining yourself is going to serve any purpose at—"

"You disinfect that house!" Al barked frantically. Sharon almost laughed.

"I will, I will," she said. "I just think that it's a waste of time, that's all. But I'll do it!" she repeated before he could argue. "I'll do it right now."

"Okay. Thanks. You're a good sport." There was one more tectonic sneeze, and the line went dead.

Sharon hung up the phone and turned back to Esteban, who was paddling the water in the sink with is toes. She didn't have to wash down the house. It was absurd. If the boy got sick it would be from sleeping next to Al, not from touching day-old germs on surfaces around the trailer. She could always just say she'd done it.

The second the boy was dried and dressed in his spare set of shabby play clothes, though, Sharon found herself fetching the gallon pail from the shelf above the washing machine and digging out the bleach. It was ridiculous and somehow ironic. Here she was carrying on a torrid extramarital affair under the man's very nose, and the thought about lying to him over a bit of scrubbing turned her stomach.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

Al hung up the phone and took a decongesting swallow from the silver flask that Sharon had given him for Christmas. He tried to exhale, but it felt as if someone had rammed three or four ounces of cotton up each nostril and into his sinuses. He rubbed his nose with his handkerchief and took another gulp of vodka. Sharon's parting words rang in his ears. Maybe she was right. Maybe he was overreacting. He hoped to God he was, because if Stevie caught his cold it could be disastrous. There were no antibiotics that would help him. His depressed immune system would be left to fend off the virius alone.

And it was a _nasty_ virus. Al rubbed his puffy eyes and coughed. Time to get back to work. It had been weeks since he'd visited Sub-Level Omega, and if he put it off any longer he might go down there to discover that Doctor Eleese had eloped with a technician or something. Despite having had almost six hours' sleep he was already exhausted. That was the fun of a head cold. Another nip from his flask gave him the energy to hoist himself out of the padded desk chair. He paused to snatch up a couple of Starbright buttons. They were still merrily glowing. In fact, the only time they seemed to stop was in bright sunlight, when the color leeched away—returning promptly if you went indoors or passed into the shade. Al looked at his little toys and grinned. He bet he knew who wasn't wearing one on her lab coat!

He shivered during the elevator ride to Sub-Level Six, and by the time he reached the bottom of the stairs and entered the top secret synchrotron lab, he was in serious discomfort. He didn't let it show, however, as he breezed into the control room, where the department head was poring over a readout with two of her best young minds flanking her. In another corner, Doctor Gushman was bent low over a computer, merrily clicking away.

"Hello, hello, hello!" Al said brightly, smiling for the scientists. "How are things down hear today?"

"Fine," Eleese said absently. "And they were fine yesterday, too, and last week, and for the whole previous month. Not that you bothered to check."

"Yes, well, fortunately you're more or less capable of continuing production without being babysat by me, aren't you?" Al asked sweetly.

This had precisely the result he had hoped for: she actually raised her eyes from the charts for a fraction of a second to glare at him. He grinned expansively.

"Well, I'm here now," he said. "Is there anything you want to report? Anything that you need? Anything at all that I can do for the most beautiful department head on the Project?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," Eleese said, once again focused wholeheartedly on her papers. "You can take your libido and get it out of my lab."

Al laughed. "Is that any way to talk to a guy who risked life and limb to bring you a present?"" he demanded.

"Life and limb?" she parroted sarcastically.

"Absolutely!" Al said. Gushman and the two young scientists were watching him as one would watch a comic at work, and he flourished as always before the audience. "Those stairs are a health hazard, and I had to get by legions of marines to reach the bottom! They could have turned me into a devilishly handsome block of Swiss cheese!"

Eleese gave him an exasperated look. "Captain, I don't have unlimited leisure time. I would appreciate it if you would desist. If you have anything important to say, say it. Then go away."

"All right!" Al agreed. "Here: I brought some official Project buttons for everyone!" He held them out. "The star's made from a new polymer that Thorgard and company discovered. Wear them in good health!"

The four scientists stared at the black buttons. Gushman was the first to take one.

"Fascinating!" he said happily. "Absolutely fascinating!"

Al beamed with pleasure as the foul-breathed programmer donned the adornment. The two young physicists each took one as well. Eleese did not.

"C'mon," Al coaxed. "You know you want it."

"I assure you I don't," she said.

"Come on! Sure you do! Everyone has to wear one! It's good for morale!"

"You're not," she observed.

Al looked down at his chest full of ribbons. "Yeah, well, I don't have the luxury of wearing civilian clothes, do I?" he said.

"Hmph." Eleese turned back to her charts. As she went, though, she took the button and slipped it into her lab coat pocket. Al smiled, pleased with himself. She wanted it, even if she didn't want to admit to it.

After talking to Gushman—to Gooshie—for a while, Al took his leave. The ascent was ten times worse than the descent. By the time he reached the sixth level, Al was drenched in perspiration and shivering so violently that his teeth were rattling in his head. His breathing was labored and his stuffy head ached. He took the lift up to the residential floor. From the safety of his suite, his mind and body steadied some by a glass of whiskey, he called his own office.

"Eulie," he said; "Hold all calls for me, okay, gorgeous? I gotta lie down."

"You should see the doctor," Eulalie said mildly. "Doctor Cartwright's very good."

"Later," Al said, sniffling miserably. "I just gotta lie down. I think maybe I'm running a fever."

"Okay," his gem of a secretary said. "Don't worry, Captain. I can run this office better than you can!"

"Oh, yeah, now I feel great about my job security," Al grumbled. Eulalie laughed. She was a great girl. A great girl.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

They were everywhere. Dan Penvenen couldn't round a corner without seeing one of them. They grated on his nerves. Absurd. It was absurd. And _this_ was where the Department of Defense money entrusted to that defunct Naviator was going? Buttons? For God's sake, this was a top secret project, not a high school carnival!

It annoyed him that Calavicci was once more incommunicado. He couldn't see how the staff could be expected to function without the Administrator maintaining a regular presence. It was too much to ask. Again, Dan found himself harkening back to his discussion with Eulalie Pharris, the captain's secretary. She had alluded to some kind of marital troubles. _Something wrong at home_ was the exact phrase she had used. That might be worth investigating. One of these days, when the captain was gone on one of his frequent unscheduled absences, it wouldn't hurt to drive into town and drop by for a casual visit. You could learn a lot from a half-hour chat with a man in his wife's presence.

No, that was no good, Dan realized. He wasn't in Calavicci's circle. It might make the man suspicious. It wouldn't do to have him go to ground. The information wasn't incriminating yet. As things stood, it was scarcely more than annoying. The Committee wouldn't take a second glance at it as it stood now, much less any higher federal authority.

Clearly the matter required more thought.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWMWMWM 

By Friday night, Al was so stuffed up that he couldn't breathe at all unless his mouth was open. This was exacerbating his sore throat, and his lips were dry and cracking. He hated that feeling. It was familiar. Far too familiar.

Fortunately, he had his pocket-sized dosette, from which he took his medicine as needed. It had been bourbon through most of the day, and now as the clock crept towards ten it was gin. He was beginning to feel very lonely and unhappy. He needed a little _intensive care_, but Sharon was at home, where he couldn't go lest he should infect Stevie.

Then the thought occurred to him. It was Friday. Barring any acts of God, Stevie wouldn't be in the house again until Monday, by which time Al had planned to be home anyway. It wouldn't hurt to head home. He could certainly do with a night in his own bed. He missed Chester's company, and though he hated to admit it, it would be nice to be fussed over. He knew Sharon _would_ fuss, too. Probably fix him a bowl of canned chicken noodle soup, massage Vicks Vapo-Rub into his chest, kiss his still-feverish head. Yeah, it would be wonderful to spend the night at home.

Of course, by the time he got there Sharon would probably be in bed… but that was where he wanted her to end up anyway, so he shouldn't let that stop him.

Filled with fresh resolve, he locked up his office and went up to his suite to don his gear. As he made his way out he happened upon the guy from Human Resources—the one with an iron rod instead of a backbone and all the charisma of a trout.

"Captain! What a surprise."

Al forced a smile. "Oh, hi, Pendr—Penvenen," he said. "How are you?"

"Well. Where are you going?" the man asked mildly.

"Home," Al said. "Why?"

Penvenen shrugged. "When will you be back?"

"Monday night. How come?"

"Drive carefully," Penvenen said, then walked away. Al looked after him and reflected that he had to be feverish yet, 'cause that conversation had had all the hallmarks of a hallucination. Oh, well. He could let Sharon nurse his fever, too. That would be a fun thing to turn into a little passion game.

He took the lift to the surface, fired up his bike and made his way to the gate. The marines on night duty let him out, and he roared away into the desert darkness.

The nondescript black Chevrolet waited ten judicious minutes before leaving the compound and setting out on the road to Wickenburg.


	41. Chapter Forty

CHAPTER FORTY

By the time he reached the Wickenburg city limits, Al was beginning to feel the effects of doctoring himself with a bottle for forty-eight hours. He hadn't thought that he had drunk that much: a sip here, a swallow there, but as he pulled off the turnpike and started towards the trailer park he couldn't deny that he was on the very cusp of being absolutely plastered.

He took the home corner too quickly, and the bike slid on gravel kicked into the street by kids terrorizing those neighbors with unpaved driveways. Al tried to compensate, but his reflexes were slowed by his illness and the liquor, and he went into a skid. There was a squalling of tires and a rumble of protest from the engine and he was down. His left foot caught in the fender, and the bike dragged him along as he hit the pavement with sundering force. When he came to a halt he lay there for a minute, winded and numb with shock. Then he started to feel the throbbing agony in his hands, and raised them above his face, which was protected by the visor of the helmet.

They were scraped raw, bleeding from dozens of tiny contusions and deeply ingrained with dirt and small stones. Al stared at them, momentarily detached. Should've worn gloves, he reflected inanely.

At least he was wearing a helmet, he realized, as similar discomfort began to prickle along the left side of his neck. There was a dull, shooting pain in his tailbone, which he suspected was a result of hitting the asphalt at forty miles an hour. Still dazed, Al was dimly aware of a burning in his legs and all up his left side, where he had done a little body-skating. His bad shoulder, strangely, didn't hurt a bit.

Dazed and a little disoriented, he sat gingerly up, looking at the bike lying on its side by his feet. His left ankle had been wrenched, which wasn't really a surprise, but he didn't realize it until he tried to get up. The compromised joint buckled, and down Calavicci went, catching himself with a cry of anguish as his battered hands were assaulted again by the gravel.

The second attempt to stand was executed with greater care, and at last Al had his feet, shaky but definitely upright. With no small effort he grabbed the handlebars and righted his vehicle, then wheeled it towards his own driveway, limping painfully.

"Damn it," he muttered, looking down at the shredded leather of his left chap. He'd have to get new ones. That was a pain in the neck.

He laid the bike on the lawn, not feeling up to groping for the kickstand, and stumbled unsteadily toward the trailer. His bloodied hands were clumsy, and he dropped the key three times. He was glad he was a little sloshed. He wasn't feeling his injuries as much as he should.

Inside, he switched on the light in the entryway. That gave him a chance to get a better look at himself.

"God, what a mess," he breathed, peeling off his mangled jacket. He was lucky he hadn't been going any faster. His left arm was scraped and bleeding. He touched the worst of the wounds and noted that there wasn't any pain. With effort, he bent and removed the chaps. His uniform pants were ruined. Both knees were out, and the whole left side was a bloodied mess of tatters. Shuddering convulsively, he stripped them off and stood there with his shirttails flapping over his shorts. He tried to roll his ankle around a little, but the pain of that was too much to put up with. Barefoot, he hobbled into the kitchen, leaving the light on so that he wouldn't have to risk waking Sharon. She was going to have a conniption fit when she saw this. She had warned him to be careful on that bike…

He routed around in the liquor cabinet and dug out the whiskey. A glass. Eight ounces that burned against his inflamed throat and settled the tremors ripping through his body. Damn. He could've been roadkill. He had to clean up a little. He fumbled in the linen drawer and brought out a tea towel. He wetted it and dabbed at the scrapes running up and down his leg. He was bleeding profusely from a broad abrasion just below the hem of his shorts. The water stung, and he hissed in discomfort.

There was soft whine, and a loving tongue lapped at his heel. Al twisted to look over his shoulder, and immediately wished he hadn't as his congested heat spun. He leaned against the counter and coughed thickly, trying to muffle it with his hand. The last thing he wanted was to have Sharon come out and find him like this.

Al poured some more whiskey and petted Chester's chin with his left big toe. The dog made a noise of contentment and licked his foot. His skinned elbows were oozing blood, and no matter how many times he wiped them more kept coming. His hands were already starting to stiffen up as the scabs began to form. He took another couple slugs of whiskey and wiped his nose on the tea towel. His side hurt like hell, and he fumbled with the buttons on the front of his shirt, reaching in to touch the sore place. The blood was still trickling down his leg. He needed help. He hated to admit it, but he needed help. He couldn't clean himself up alone. His mind was getting fuzzier and more disoriented with each passing minute. Another glass of whiskey. He was very, very drunk.

He stumbled as he limped towards the living room, catching himself against the wall and clapping his hand over mouth and nose to stifle the sneeze that shook his whole body. He didn't want to wake Juan.

The door to the bedroom was closed, and a thin line of light showed beneath it. As Al approached he thought he could hear quiet laughter, but of course that didn't make sense. He gripped the doorknob as hard as his hurt hand would allow, and opened the door.

He stood, frozen, staring at the scene in front of him.

Bare-chested and olive-skinned, Juan Penja was lying against the pillows. Sharon was on top of him, tracing patterns on his breastbone and giggling softly as she kissed his collarbones. He was toying with her hair. They weren't actually _doing_ anything, but it was obviously what they _had_ been up to. Al was dimly aware that he was clutching the doorframe for support and that his jaw had gone slack. They did not immediately notice the intruder, but then Juan raised his head and gasped. Puzzled, Sharon looked at his face, then followed his gaze and sat up with a little shriek of horror, snatching up the coverlet to hide herself.

"_Al_!" she cried.

Silence.

Juan cleared his throat. "Look, Mr. Calavicci…"

Al gestured that he should shut the hell up. He obeyed. When the captain had that look in his eyes, even civilians did not dare to defy him. Sharon smoothed her hair self-consciously. "Al…" she murmured.

His hands began to shake. He looked at his wife, in bed with Celestina's brother-in-law, and he couldn't believe it. He wanted to kill them… he wanted…

The door shut with a shuddering slam. Al stumbled into the darkened living room, blinded with consternation and rage. He crashed against the end table and sent the dishes—the _dirty_ dishes—from what had probably been a frenetically romantic dinner crashing to the ground. The sound sparked his rage. He tore through into the kitchen and dragged open the first cupboard that came to hand. He grabbed a plate and threw it against the wall. The sound made him feel marginally better, but the second the echo faded away the pain in his chest was back. He grabbed another. _Smash_! And another.

Chester began to bark, hiding behind the armchair and trembling, frightened by this display. Al was dimly conscious as he threw another plate that tears were streaming down his cheeks, but he couldn't stop them. It all made sense now. No wonder Sharon had been giving him the cold shoulder… how long had this been going on?

Another plate. His hand closed on the half-empty whiskey bottle, and he took a long gulp straight from it. His free hand found another bottle, and he stumbled for the door. He had to get out of here. He couldn't breathe properly in this lousy little trailer.

He stumbled out onto the lawn. His ankle buckled and he fell to his knees, jolts of fire shooting through his hurt legs. He raised the whiskey to his lips and took a long draught. He hammered the grass with his fist and let out a wet, choking cough. It was followed rapidly by an enormous sneeze. Another drink. The whiskey spilled down his chin, soaking the front of his shirt. She was in there… in his bed… with… with…

He shook his head, trying to control the shaking in his limbs. He tilted his head back and drained the bottle. It fell to earth with a soft thump. The other bottle… it was almost empty… it wouldn't enough… but it was all he had. He struggled to open it…

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

Juan shot the deadbolt. Sharon stood, clutching her robe closed and staring at the destruction in the kitchen. Fragments of glass and ceramics, a bloody cloth, dirty and mangled clothing. She thought about the specter who had interrupted their lovemaking: a pale, bloodied ghost, one side of his body torn up and battered, his face numb with disbelief. Then suddenly gone, and sounds of World War Three coming from the other room. Chester was cowering behind the armchair, his head hidden beneath it. Sharon picked him up and hugged him to her breast, stroking his quivering little body.

"What's he doing?" Sharon whispered, looking at Juan. He came over and put his arms around her.

"Just sitting there."

"Should we… I mean, it's cold out there…"

Juan looked at her in mild disbelief. "You see that mess?" he asked, gesturing at the shrapnel littering the kitchen floor. "You want that to be us?"

"He wouldn't… he's harmless…" Sharon shivered and let the strong arms wrap more tightly around her as she cuddled Chester closer. She could feel shock taking hold of her. She was losing command of mind and body.

"Does that look like something a harmless person would do?" Juan queried, nodding again at the razed room.

Sharon had to admit it didn't.

"Let him cool down overnight," Juan said. "When he's sober we can talk about it like adults."

"But he's hurt," Sharon protested feebly, gesturing at the towel.

"Just a little scraped up. Probably fell off that bike. Serves him right for riding drunk. He's plastered, baby. Better for everybody if he sobers up."

Sharon nodded, a lump in her throat. "He'll be okay?"

"Sure. Guy's been married four times, right? Like _he's_ never cheated. Come on, sweetheart." He kissed her neck. "Let's not let him ruin our fun!"

His hand found its way inside her robe. Sharon pulled away almost violently. "No!" she cried, her voice cracking. "No! I… I can't! I can't! Please… just leave me alone…"

She retreated into the bedroom. Juan followed with an exclamation, but she closed the door in his face, leaning against it as she slid to the ground. She held Chester, pressing her lips against his soft little head as she began to sob uncontrollably.

MWMWMMWWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWMM 

Al was shivering so violently that he could hardly breathe through his clicking teeth. It was cold, that particular dry cold that you could only find in the desert. He pulled his knees up to his chest and tried to drag the halves of his shirt closed over them. He couldn't. A sneeze shook him, and he groped for the bottle nearest him, but it was empty. So was the other one. He moaned softly. It hurt. It hurt so much.

His leg was throbbing, and his hands pulsed in anguish. Worse than everything was the dim recollection he had of Sharon and that… that _bricklayer_…

He struggled to his feet and stumbled towards the bike. He had to get out of here. He had to ride. He had to hit the road…

He mounted up, but stopped abruptly when he realized that he didn't have his helmet or boots. He dismounted, letting the bike fall back on the lawn, and limped for the door. It was locked. He rattled it, then dug in his breast pocket for his key. He didn't have it. All he had was a wash-worn piece of heavy card, forgotten there and laundered several times. He took it out. It was rough, but the ink was still almost legible. He could make out an eleven-digit telephone number. He squinted, trying to focus on the figures. He couldn't, so he threw the card away and hammered on the door.

"Sharon!" he roared drunkenly. "Sharon, open the door! Open the door! Damn you, OPEN THE DOOR!"

She didn't. He knew she wouldn't. In her place, he wouldn't either. He knew that, but still he had to try. He hammered again. It was useless. He tried to turn, but he slipped and landed painfully, the edge of the cinderblock scraping up his back. He moaned and fought to crawl away from the trailer. He had to hide. He had to find somewhere to hide. It wasn't safe out in the open. They'd find him. They'd follow the tracks and they'd find him. Then they'd drag him back and beat him until he couldn't breathe, and put him back… back in the tiger cage. He couldn't bear that. He couldn't. He just couldn't.

His hurting hands found the coarse cement of the sidewalk. He tried to walk, but couldn't. His legs crossed and uncrossed, stumbling and falling and struggling to move in a coordinated manner. He couldn't. He had to crawl, which hurt his bare legs and raw knees horribly, but it was the only way. He had to get deeper into the jungle. They would expect him to keep to the trails. With his bare feet, he had to keep to the trails… at least that's what Charlie thought. Well, Charlie was wrong.

He had to hide. He had to find somewhere safe. Somewhere safe. Safe.

He crept towards the end of the street, each inch of progress excruciatingly hard-earned. But he had to find somewhere safe. Safe. Somewhere Charlie wouldn't ever find him. He was weak from the last torture session. Weak, and in so much pain. He tried to compartmentalize it, shut it away. He had to. He had to forget the pain and the weakness.

Al reached the edge of Celestina's yard, and fell again, his arms shivering and buckling. He moaned in torment and crawled just a little farther. Then just a little farther than that. Then he rolled underneath the trailer hitch, and drew his limbs in towards his chest, shaking violently. He sneezed and snuffled. His jaw started to ache. He was cold. So cold. So very cold.

There was a noise, and Al cringed, trying to scrabble further underneath the trailer. Then a shadow moved across the streetlamp's amber glow.

"Who is there?" a thickly accented voice asked. "Please, who is out here?"

Celestina. Al tried to answer her, to explain about the "V", to tell her he had to hide, but the words couldn't come. He moaned.

Suddenly there was a bleary image of a nightgown-clad wraith crouching to peer under the trailer. "Senor Calavicci? What is this?" she breathed.

Al shrank away, not sure what he was seeing or hearing or feeling anymore. Then a cool, soothing hand brushed his fevered forehead, and suddenly she was drawing him out into the open. She cast her eyes down. "Your hands," she mourned. "Your poor hands."

Al looked dumbly at the kind eyes as Celestina stroked his cheek. His throat was closed and he couldn't speak. He was so numbed with alcohol and pain and grief that he couldn't even really comprehend what was happening. Her words reached his ears, but he didn't' understand them.

"You are cold," she said. "You are sick. Where is Senora Calavicci? Why you not go home?"

Al shook his head to show he didn't understand. Celestina smoothed his hair and brushed her hand along his bare leg, touching the scrapes. "You are hurt," she said. "You come inside."

She rose and tried to draw him to his feet, but her offer had penetrated through the fog of alcohol. Al shook his head frantically. "No," he said. "No. I'm sick. I'll make Stevie sick."

"Esteban sleeps," Celestina told him. A fit of ague made Al double up on himself, quivering with cold and fever. "You come inside. You get warm."

Al tried to fight her, but he was too weak, too drunk, and in his agony too vulnerable. He let her help him to his feet and limped towards the door of the tiny trailer. Soon he was inside, and then suddenly she was easing him into the bed next to the sleeping child, and a cool cloth was bathing his forehead.

Then the booze finally caught up with him and he passed out cold.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

The tiny camera clicked, and Dan Penvenen sat back. Well, well. Very interesting. He closed his eyes as his finely honed brain sifted through the scene he had witnessed. Sounds of mayhem had come out of the trailer, followed quickly by Calavicci, half-naked and barefoot, with a bottle in each hand. He had collapsed on the lawn and proceeded to get absolutely plastered. Another man, wearing boxer shorts, had come and shut the door. The wife had a lover! She was making a cuckold of Calavicci.

It hadn't ended there. The inebriated naval captain had crawled—not walked or even staggered, but actually _crawled_!—up the street to the smallest and trashiest trailer on the block. He had tried to hide under it, but a beautiful young Mexican woman in a long blue nightgown had come out and brought him into the open. She had petted his face and kissed his hair, and then taken him into her trailer. So what was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander, and Calavicci himself was enjoying the finer things in life from the comfort of his own little clapboard slum.

It was fascinating, and one day the pictures might come in handy, but alone it was still not enough to discredit Calavicci. It was still not enough to justify intervention in the running of Starbright. If the man wanted to drink and womanize and crawl around the world in his jockey shorts on weekends, there was nothing that Dan could do to stop him. Such behavior would have been grounds for dismissal in disgrace from certain federal bodies, but his particular branch of the service wasn't one of them. Of the vices, the Navy favored liquor and women above all, and they weren't likely to frown on a little recreational indiscretion. After all, American sailors had been doing such things for two hundred years. Unless Calavicci made the unforgivable error of bringing his personal life to work, there was nothing that could be accomplished by bringing this scandal to light. If Dan tried, he would only tip his own hand.

Therefore, there was no better solution than to keep these photos in a safe place, write up a detailed account of the evening's proceedings, and keep a very close eye on Calavicci. From the way the man had been drinking tonight, it was only a matter of time before he brought the booze and the anger to Starbright.

And when he did, Dan would have him.

After all, Penvenen always got his man in the end.


	42. Chapter FortyOne

Note: A huge thank you to the costume mistress for this chapter!

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Al scrubbed his face with his hands. "Pull yourself together, Calavicci," he muttered, glancing at Celestina, who was brewing up some of her carefully hoarded coffee for him. He had been awake for half an hour—long enough to fall out of bed, puke his guts out in the closet-sized bathroom, and relive what had happened last night.

Parts of it were, mercifully, blurred. He couldn't remember much after closing the bedroom door. The crux of the matter was painfully clear, though. Sharon and Juan…

His head sent up fresh, throbbing waves of agony. This was a whole new kind of hangover. He needed a drink, but there was no way in hell he was going back to that trailer to face that woman and her…

And her lover. A voice in the back of his head taunted him: _Admit it, Calavicci. Your wife has a lover._

Last night he had been numb with shock and liquor. Now he could feel his anger, and it was consuming him. How long had she been lying to him? Juan had been bunking at their place for months. Three nights a week Al was up at Starbright. They could have been carrying on this affair since… God, since February! The lying, cheating deceitful hussy! Bawling him out 'cause he didn't tell her about his surgery until after the fact, crabbing about the way he ran the house, complaining about taking care of Stevie, and all the while shacking up with that—

Stevie. Al turned swiftly to look at the child slumbering behind him. The motion was far too abrupt for his sore head, and he had to fight a spinning wave of nausea. Somebody needed to invent an alcohol that didn't give you a hangover.

Stevie was sleeping peacefully, one arm crooked around his stuffed Chester. Waking up with the boy's arms around his neck, Al had for one wonderful moment been transported back to the cramped tenement flat in Little Italy, with Trudy next to him and Pop and Momma still asleep on the other side of the thin wall. Then the horror of reality had come flooding back and he had scrambled backwards out of the bed in consternation. He had been lying next to the child all night, sniffling and snorting and breathing infectious air all over the dangerously ill child. How could he have let Celestina lie him down next to her son? How could he have let her take him into her trailer at all? He should have resisted. One night outdoors wouldn't have killed him.

He shivered involuntarily, his bare legs coming out in goose bumps. It would have been a miserable night, but it wouldn't have killed him.

Al had awakened to find his injuries cleaned, and oft-laundered cotton rags wrapped around his shredded hands. Celestina and her big heart had saved him a lot of trouble there. He knew how wounds, even surface wounds, festered if you left them untended. He owed her more than just the night's lodgings. And in repayment, he was probably going to kill her baby.

The coffee was ready, and she brought it to him, feeling his forehead with the experienced hand of a mother. "You feel better today?" she asked.

"I will," Al grunted, taking a swallow of the bitter beverage and flinching.

Celestina drew her chair close to him and folded her hands in her lap. Her large, dark eyes fixed upon him, filled with genuine concern. "Why you outside without clothes?" she asked. "How you get hurt? Where Señora Calavicci?"

Al rubbed at his aching head. Where the hell did he start with this one? How could he tell her what her tool of a brother-in-law was up to with his wife? How could he even admit that he'd lost Sharon?

"I… I had a little accident on the bike," he said. "That's how come I'm all scratched up. And Sharon… she's… well…" He shrugged. "I got locked out," he concluded lamely.

Celestina's brow furrowed, as if she was trying to muddle through an insoluble puzzle. Then she lowered her eyes. "She was angry? Because you have been drinking?" she queried.

Al felt a hot flush of shame igniting his cheeks. "That's me," he said. "A no-good drunk."

Celestina stiffened, squaring her shoulders and jutting her chin in defiance. "You not no good!" she cried. "You are great man, kind man. You not no good! I tell her—"

She started towards the door. Al caught her by the arm. "No!" he exclaimed. Celestina turned. "No," Al said, more quietly. "Sharon and me… we've gotta settle it ourselves."

Celestina nodded slightly, but her expression was still fiercely protective. "I talk to Juan," she said. "He should not let her lock you out without your clothes in the cold night. He should stand by good Señor Calavicci who has done so much for Esteban."

Al wanted to crawl into a hole and die from despair. She had no idea and he couldn't possibly tell her. For some reason she had latched onto him and become his fervent protector. He remembered the day of Stevie's operation, and how when she saw his scars she had uttered sincere but foolish threats against the hands that had caused them. He could see the same indignation in her eyes now. He took another draught of coffee and gripped her hand.

"Celestina, just leave it," he said. "Sometimes married people fight. Don't worry about it."

"You talk to her and make it right," she said with confidence. "She forgive you. It is not so bad, to drink. Carlos even would drink a little."

Oh, sure, because _he_ was really the one who needed forgiving, here!

The frightening thought occurred to Al that maybe he was. The instinct was to blame the one who cheated, but wasn't the one who had driven her too it as much if not more to blame? He hadn't been much of a husband. God knew, he had never had what she wanted. He'd brought her to live in this mobile slum. He'd asked her to make do with a dwelling that didn't even have a bathtub. He'd taken a free-spirited artist and forced on her the schedule of a military wife. He dragged her into his obligation to Stevie—an obligation that had grown larger and larger as the months passed. He had never communicated with her. He had gone off and forgot to call, more than once. He hadn't really listened to her. He hadn't supported her art the way he should have. After dragging her to the Project Christmas party, he had actually bawled her out for dancing with other men. At the end of the day, he hadn't even been able to offer her financial security. He was a terrible husband. Was it any surprise she'd sought comfort in the arms of another man when he had left her alone half the time and been dead of exhaustion on the rare nights he _was_ home?

He was beginning to understand. Sharon's affair was a judgment on him. It was his just dessert for the way he had never really been there for her. All her worries about her family, all her personal travails she had had to face alone, because he was too wrapped up in his own problems to care. Just like Pop had never been there for Momma, he had never been there for Sharon. At least this time there were no kids to hurt.

Thoughts of divorcing her as an adulteress fled. That wasn't fair. That implied that she was the only one at fault.

Al scrubbed his face with his hands. "I better go and try to make it right," he said wearily.

"I go with you," Celestina volunteered.

"No!" Al said, much more sharply than he had meant to. He softened his tone as fright took hold of Celestina's face. "No, I gotta go by myself."

He tried to get to his feet, but his left ankle was swollen and as he tried to put his weight on it he swayed. Celestina caught him with a capable grip.

"You are hurt," she repeated for what had to be the fiftieth time, easing him back onto the chair.

"I'm fine," Al said gruffly. "I just need to stop trying to rely on that foot." He looked down at the inflamed joint, and abruptly his state of undress occurred to him and he colored again. He couldn't go traipsing around the neighborhood like this. Questions of modesty aside, he didn't want to advertise his injuries—neither the ones sustained in the street last night, nor those that had long ago faded into memory and scar tissue.

Working up the courage to face Sharon was going to require a whole lot of effort.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWM 

Juan had cleaned up the kitchen, Sharon noticed when she emerged from the bedroom. All signs of Al's destructive rampage were gone. She had lain in bed for hours, wrestling with herself and trying to reconcile the pleasure Juan's company gave her with the pain Al's hurt and anger was causing her. She just wanted to be happy, and she had that with Juan, but she couldn't be content while she had the image of Al, half-dressed and bleeding, staring at them in shock and mute fury, burned into her mind.

She didn't want to hurt him. She hadn't set out to hurt him. Or had she? It was so hard to remember. Certainly she had been very angry that night. She had been sure he was cheating, or terrified that he had stripped his gears and was going crazy like Dad. The jumble of frantic emotion had somehow turned to sexual passion. It had just… _happened_. She hadn't tried to strike out against her husband. She had just needed some way to work out her frustrations, and Juan had been there, ready to fill the void.

He was sitting on the sofa now, with a newspaper spread on the carpet, over which he was oiling his boots. Sharon stood watching him for a minute.

"What now?" she asked.

He looked up. "What do you mean?"

"What do we do now?" Sharon repeated.

Juan shrugged. "What do you want to do?"

Sharon looked at him helplessly. "I just… I don't know," she said.

"Are you happy with him?" Juan pressed, focusing on his work again. "Is this the life that you wanted?"

"No," Sharon admitted softly. Chester padded through the room, sniffing the floor as he disappeared into her studio. A deeper truth surfaced. "I don't know what kind of life I want. I just wish that whatever kind of life it was, I didn't have to worry. Not about Dad, not about Esteban, not about Al. I don't want to worry about money. I don't want to worry about what people think. I don't want to worry about anything. I've been worrying for ten years, and I'm sick of it. I'm so sick of it, baby."

She sat down next to him and laid her head on his shoulder. He set down his boot on the paper and wiped his hands on his jeans before wrapping his arm around her.

"You could come away with me," he said. "The job is almost done. I could have the boss pay me off tomorrow and we could leave."

"Leave?" Sharon whispered. "Where will we go?"

Juan shrugged. "Doesn't matter," he said. "We go where we want to. We stop when we're tired. We eat when we're hungry. We sleep together whenever we feel like it. No worries. No troubles."

Sharon closed her eyes. It was a nice dream. Nice? It was a heavenly dream. If only it was as simple as that. "I can't," she said. "Who'll look after Esteban? Who'll visit Dad? I've got those paintings in the gallery at city hall right now, and if somebody likes them I have to be here, and Al… you know, he really can't take care of himself. Can't or won't. And—"

Juan kissed her into silence. "Sharon," he said; "if you spend your whole life worrying about what you _should_ be doing, you'll never do anything worthwhile."

She laughed hollowly. "That's some advice, Mahareshi," she said. "You really think I should take advice from you? I'm old enough to be your mother."

He kissed her again. "But you're not my mother," he murmured.

She giggled a little and burrowed her fingers into his long hair. Who wouldn't love a man like him?

The doorbell rang, and her blood turned to ice.

"Al," she breathed, stiffening with dread.

Chester came rocketing out of the studio, barking eagerly. Juan nudged Sharon so that she stood.

"Tell him what you want," he said. "Whatever it is. Don't think about me. Don't think about him. Think about you. Do what's right for you."

She swallowed hard and nodded once, aware in some deep recess of her mind that she was consenting to something she would be unable to recant. Once she started to do what was right for herself, where would it end? Once upon a time she had been really good at it. She'd married Heinrich because it had been right for her at the time. She had divorced him for the same reason. College, art, everything had been for herself until Dad got sick. After that Sharon Quinn had begun to matter less and less, until in the months before her breakdown over Al's glowing plastic she had been nothing but a robot, working and worrying herself into an early grave.

The bell rang again, and Chester's barking grew more excited. No doubt who it was. Who else would it be? Sharon smoothed her well-teased hair and opened the door.

On the other side of the screen stood Al. Sharon stared. His torn and disheveled, sweat-soaked uniform shirt was finger-pressed within an inch of its life and buttoned as meticulously as if for parade. He had slicked his hair down with water and tried to make his unshaven face look respectable. His eyes were bloodshot from the previous night's drinking binge, and puffy from the cold he was obviously still suffering. His bare feet had been traded in for Celestina's sandals, which actually were a remarkably good fit. What made him look truly bizarre, however, were the pants.

They were black, the kind worn by mariachi bands. The braid running down the outside of each leg was thick and extravagant, in bright shades of pink and blue. The garment was at least six sizes too big for Al, and had obviously been made for a man more Juan's height. They rumpled around Al's feet, and he had enough of the waistband bunched into his right hand to make a matching set of trousers for Esteban. The effect was that of a gruesome experiment in which Victor Frankenstein had combined the torso of a Naval officer who'd been marooned on the planet of the asphalt with the legs of a Mexican midget. Sharon couldn't help the guffaw that welled up in her throat.

Al gritted his teeth. "Yeah, I know," he growled. "The Great Dictator meets the banditos from The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. Celestina had her old man's wedding gear kicking around. Now let me in so I can put on some real clothes."

Sharon shook her head. "We need to talk about this, Al," she said.

"What's to talk about?" he asked.

"Al…"

He shook his head. There was something strangely like defeat in his eyes. "I just want a hot shower and some clothes. Then I'll move up to Starbright. You mind still taking Stevie on Tuesdays and Thursdays?"

This wasn't how it was supposed to be. He was supposed to rant and rail and try to fight for her, not give her up and ask if she was willing to take the kid on Tuesdays and Thursdays! It was like he didn't care…

The words were out before she could think about them. "I want a divorce!" she cried.

Al stiffened as if he had been slapped. "What?"

She couldn't take it back. She wouldn't take it back. Why should she take it back?

"I want a divorce," she said defiantly. "You can use the van for one day. Get all of your stuff the hell out of this trailer. On Monday you'd better get yourself an attorney, because that's what I'll be doing!"

Al stared at her for a moment, then blinked rapidly as he composed himself. "Okay," he said softly. "Okay, so you're divorcing me. What about Stevie?"

"What about him?" Sharon cried. "He's not our kid!"

"It's important," Al said. From the look in his eye, Sharon could tell that this was the single most important issue. Any questions of their marriage were secondary. She couldn't say whether that was admirable or loathsome.

"I'll take him Tuesdays and Thursdays," she said hoarsely.

"Good," Al said flatly. "Now, would you please get—"

Not letting him finish, Sharon fled into the house, making straight for her studio. She closed the door behind her. She seized up a primed canvas and expressed her turmoil and desolation in the only way she could.

When she emerged four hours later, Al was gone. So was his clothing, his personal possessions, the contents of the liquor cabinet, and the dog.

Juan kissed her.

"I'm proud of you, darling," he said.

Sharon was glad that he was proud of her, because she certainly wasn't proud of herself.


	43. Chapter FortyTwo

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

In the corner office on the pediatrics floor of the Wickenburg hospital, five people waited for Doctor Ananda. Sharon occupied a chair near the physician's desk, looking studiously at the Bachelor's of Pharmacy degree mounted between the windows as if it was the most fascinating thing she had seen in months. Juan stood next to her, his hand placed protectively on her shoulder.

Celestina was sitting as far from them as she could, her knees pressed together beneath the shabby skirt. She was bowed over her rosary beads, and the murmured supplications she was offering provided an undertone that safeguarded the room from silence.

Al was cross-legged on the colorful rug. A Fisher Price schoolhouse was residing near his left knee, the little plastic students scattered around it. Stevie had been putting them through their lessons, but after only fifteen minutes, still under the effects of the sedative they had given him before his eighth bone marrow biopsy this year, he had climbed into his playmate's lap and fallen asleep.

The unspoken apprehension that hung in the air was almost as smothering as the chasm that separated the four adults into two parties. After almost a month of division, they had set aside their differences for one day. It was time for Stevie's third post-chemo review, and not one of them could bear to miss it.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

Celestina had found out. It was impossible that she should not, really, as integrated as her household was with Al's. What had tipped her off, Al suspected, was coming home from work on the Monday after the weekend from hell to find the Calavicci trailer locked, and Al in her own dwelling instead, watching over the sleeping child. On Tuesday she had learned from Sharon that divorce proceedings were in the works and that Al had taken up permanent residence "at work". The truth about the catalyst for the break-up hadn't come out immediately.

Because the needs of the desperately ill child had to take precedence over personal differences, Al still had the use of Sharon's van on chemo days. He would be out of bed at four on those mornings, and would take the bike into Wickenburg, usually arriving around seven. He would take over from Celestina, who had to leave for work at half-past. Stevie was due up at the hospital at eight, so Al would get the keys from Sharon and take him. When his mother got home, Al would head back up to the Project. There were advantages to this. He was getting a lot of work done. God knew there was nothing else to do in the Starbright compound.

After the first week he had almost accepted the situation. It wasn't so bad. He was sleeping better now that he wasn't in a different bed every other day. The food left something to be desired, coming as it did from the surface restaurant or the fifth level mess, but he had more time for cooking now that he wasn't spending so much of his life on the road. He could still keep an eye on his little guy, and by some miracle Stevie hadn't caught his cold. He was still sick from the chemo, and getting weaker with each passing day, but, by some fluke of fate, he wasn't hooked up to a respirator dying of Calavicci's virus.

Chester had settled into the new digs happily. Al wasn't sure whether pets were allowed on site—probably not, but hell, he was the Project administrator, and if he wanted his furry companion to live with him, it was going to happen! The little terrier was invaluable. When Al awoke in the middle of the night, the dog was there to remind him that he wasn't alone. There were times when the preventative whiskey wasn't enough and the nightmares came, and the next best thing to having a beautiful woman handy was feeling the warm weight of a loving little animal settle on your abdomen, blissfully happy to be near you.

The matter of the divorce was a pain in the neck, but it wasn't anything Al hadn't been through before. He knew the drill, and found himself a good lawyer. At least, Gavin Prendergast had all the markings of a good lawyer: swanky office, leggy secretary, and the air of a man who was born with a whole damned silver dinner service in his mouth. He was certainly expensive enough.

Things at Starbright had taken a turn for the better since the Night of the Neon Polymer. The Committee was for the time being placated, and down on Sub-Level Omega some very real progress was being made. It wasn't anything spectacular, but to scientists accustomed to looking for differences at the point one inch per second level it was heartening. Eleese was going around the project with a smile lingering just below the surface, and she had civil words for everyone. It was almost a sign of the Apocalypse.

If Al could have stopped agonizing over his collapsing marriage, everything would have been perfect. He was torn between confusion, anger, relief and shame. The last break-up had been much easier. The decay of his third marriage had been so obviously no one's fault. There hadn't been any hurt feelings. No suggestions that either party was inadequate. No boyfriend looking over Ruthie's shoulder.

Al didn't know how to relate to Juan now. He saw him three mornings a week when he got the van key from Sharon. They hadn't spoken. There was, really, no reason that they should speak—except that Al wanted to tell him that he should damned well treat Sharon better than her soon-to-be-ex-husband had.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

Sharon couldn't see the improvement. She had a different bedfellow—and one who was actually home seven nights a week—but otherwise there was no difference. She was still looking after Esteban two mornings a week. Every Sunday she still drove in to Phoenix, there to struggle with Daddy's growing confusion. At least she didn't need to keep the trailer ship-shape now, the obsessive-compulsive sailor having weighed anchor for a new port. But just because they weren't under the same roof didn't mean she could stop worrying about him.

And did she worry! Was he eating, was he sleeping, was he screwing around? Why did she care if he was screwing around? For God's sake, she was divorcing him! What difference did it make if he dropped dead tomorrow?

Except it did make a difference. She obviously still felt something for him. In her younger days she might have seen this revelation as grounds for trying to patch things up. She knew better now. She could analyse her feelings to a point. She wanted to take care of him, not to coexist in wedded harmony. She wanted to make sure he ate all his vegetables, to see that he was driving carefully on that stupid bike of his, to tell him that drinking was bad for his liver, and to order him to get more sleep. Al hated attention like that. He probably even hated it more than he hated the idea of her and Juan.

Juan's offer to pack up and take off still stood, but Sharon couldn't do it. She just couldn't. Who would take care of Esteban on Tuesdays and Thursdays if she hit the road? It was so tempting to just leave everything behind, but she knew that she wouldn't be able to. She would carry the worries with her to the ends of the earth, and while she was no practical help to Dad or to Al, she was of concrete assistance to Esteban and Celestina. She was making a real difference there, however minor. If she robbed them of that help she wouldn't be able to live with the guilt and the anxieties.

So she stayed and Juan, because he went with the flow on principle, stayed with her. There was still a good three weeks' work to do on the library building. Sharon suspected he really did want to be close just in case something happened with Esteban, but she didn't broach the subject. She didn't want to send him into a fit of denial and resentment.

In any case, she was busy compiling her annual application for the city's Artist in Residence, a post that turned over every September. She had tried for it every year for as long as she could remember, but without success. This year, though, she had an assortment of new work that she knew was great. There was the painting of the man, the woman and the child, as well as three others she thought stood a good chance of impressing the committee in charge of reviewing the portfolios of the hopefuls. Whatever else the last year had been, it certainly hadn't hurt her creativity.

The worst part about the whole mess was the rift between herself and Celestina. The truth about Juan had taken its time to come out, but it was inevitable that it eventually would.

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It had happened in the midst of the third week since Al had caught them in bed. Sharon and Juan had seen no need to hide their relationship from Esteban. After all, he was just a little kid, and he wasn't very smart, and he had no perception of what was going on. As far as the boy was concerned, the world went on as it always had.

On that Wednesday afternoon, though, Celestina had come storming up the street with murder in her eyes.

Sharon had been making supper (canned tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches), and Juan was emerging from the bedroom, having showered after work. Neither of them expected to see the angel of vengeance striding up the walk. Sharon opened the door, puzzled and mildly taken aback.

"You betray him!" Celestina cried. "That is why he is gone! You not fight about drink: you betray him!"

Sharon stiffened. This black-haired incarnation of her conscience derailed her utterly.

"He is a good man! A kind man, a great man, and you betray him!" Celestina cried, hurt and fury evident in her soulful eyes.

Sharon found herself groping for some kind of reply. Before she could say anything, Celestina had spied Juan, and flew past the other woman to attack her brother-in-law. Angry maledictions poured from her lips. Sharon watched, amazed. She had never imagined that this timid, quiet woman was capable of making so much noise—or of showing such rage. Celestina was livid. She could scarcely breathe, so busy was she upbraiding Juan. Sharon was glad she couldn't understand the words. It didn't look like a fun chewing-out at all. The vitriol in Celestina's voice ripped through the air, and once or twice as she slapped the back of one hand against the palm of the other, the muscular bricklayer actually flinched. It was a strange and disturbing sight: the tall, broad-shouldered man cowering before this tiny, birdlike woman.

At last, Celestina let out one last wrathful exclamation, and struck Juan full across the face and with such force that he reeled against the kitchen table. Sharon cried out in alarm, and Celestina, tears now streaming down her cheeks, spun to look at her.

"He is a good man!" she repeated once more. Then she fled the trailer.

The next morning, Esteban did not appear as expected. Sharon had left Juan, whose cheekbone was swollen and purple from Celestina's blow, to eat his breakfast, and made her way up the street. Celestina was just leaving her little trailer. She closed the door with care and bent to lift Esteban onto her hip. As thin as he was, he was still too much of a burden for his little mother.

"Where are you going?" Sharon asked, looking at the boy, whose head was resting on his mother's shoulder.

"To work," Celestina said coldly.

"And Esteban?"

"He come with me. Senor Andriuk will let him stay."

"You can't do that," Sharon reasoned. "He can spend the day with me, same as always."

"With you?" Celestina snapped. "With you and his no good uncle? No. No. He come to work."

"Look, we weren't trying to hurt Al—"

"You do! You do hurt him!" the younger woman had cried. "He not say so, but I know. I see. You hurt him. Why? Why do you do it?"

Sharon had felt a burst of indignation. Who was Celestina to pass judgement on them? The answer of course, was that she was a deeply devout, loving woman who for some reason worshiped Al Calavicci. Her motives were pure and caring. She really was so pained by Al's hurt that she could not abide the sight of those who had caused it.

It wasn't fair, though, that Esteban should suffer because of Sharon's transgression. She had tried to reason with Celestina.

"I know I hurt him," she said softly. "And I'm sorry. I'm sorry it had to happen like this, but it isn't going to change anything now. Please. Let me take Esteban. He needs to lie down and rest. He needs peace and quiet so that he can stay strong for his treatments. Please, Celestina."

She had yielded the child, but not without reluctance. It had been much more a question about what was best for Esteban than what was morally palatable to Celestina. Despite acknowledging the importance of rest for her son, she was not yielding. It was clear the deed had sickened her beyond telling.

The following Tuesday, the anger was, astoundingly, forgotten, at least where Sharon was concerned. Juan was not forgiven: that was plainly evident in Celestina's eyes. What he had done was beyond forgiveness.

Sharon suspected that Al had had something to do with smoothing things over between herself and Celestina, but she couldn't imagine what he had possibly said.

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Al watched Celestina, still praying as if she could obtain an eleventh-hour miracle. Any minute now, Jess D. Ananda, Pediatric Oncologist, would come through that door and tell them there was no improvement.

Al rocked Stevie's sleeping body a little. He wasn't sure how much longer they could all keep this up. Here they were: two warring factions held together only by a mutual dedication to this child.

On Friday of the previous week, he had shown up at the Penjas' trailer at the usual hour to find Stevie trying to comfort Celestina, who was sitting dejectedly on one of her flimsy aluminum chairs. Al watched for a moment, listening to the worried lispings of "Don't be thad, Momma. Pleathe don't be thad." before he opened the screen door and entered the trailer, kneeling swiftly in front of the distressed woman.

"What is it?" he had asked gently. "What's wrong?"

She looked up at him with such anguish in her dark eyes that he immediately scanned the room for a telegram, fearing that word had come of her husband's death. "Why?" Celestina whispered. "Why?"

"Why what, honey?" Al prompted, taking her hand in his. She had gripped it frantically.

"Why?" she repeated. "Why you no tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"She betray you!" Celestina cried. "She betray you, sleep with Juan!"

Al had felt the bottom fall out of his stomach. He hadn't wanted her to find out. "Where'd you hear that?" he asked as mildly as he could, on the off chance that she didn't _really_ know. That was ridiculous. She had to have heard it somewhere. She was too good, too pure of heart to leap to conclusions like that on her own. She didn't have a gossip's mind.

"Esteban!" Celestina said fiercely. The boy had looked up from poking his stuffed dog's nose, anxious and unaware of what he had done to earn such a stern address. Celestina saw his distress in spite of her own, and stroked his cheek. "Good boy," she soothed, kissing the crown of his bald head. "You go wash hands now. Like Mama show you."

"Yup, yup," Stevie agreed, happy again.

"You heard it from Stevie?" Al had clarified, puzzled beyond hope of resolving this alone.

"Sí," Celestina had told him wrathfully. "Sí. He tell me he see them, Senora Calavicci and Juan, _el Diablo, _kissing in the trailer. He say Juan kiss her. Esteban not lie to me. She betray you, this is why you fight. Why she lock you out, cold and hurt."

"Naw, it wasn't like that—"

Suddenly, Celestina had burst into tears and thrown herself into his arms. "Forgive me!" she had wailed. "Please, please, I am so sorry! What I have done! What I have done to you, _mi guardia, mi angel_!"

"Shh, Celestina, stop," Al had cried in dismay, stroking her hair. "Shh, honey, you didn't do anything to me. Celestina, honey, don't cry…"

"I have! I bring him! I bring him here, wicked man!" she had continued, stroking his cheek frantically as if he had been mortally wounded at her hand. "So kind, you take him into your home so he does not have to sleep in the cold. So generous, pay for Esteban's medicines, his operations, his tests. So good. And he, wicked, wicked man, he deceive you, seduce Senora Calavicci, she betray you! Oh, what, what I have done!"

"Hey, honey…" Al had stammered shallowly, unable to rouse the right words. "No. Celestina… no, it's not your fault. He didn't seduce her. Believe me, hon, she didn't need any seducing. Come on, honey, don't… don't cry…"

"I hate him! I will kill him!" she had cried. "Wicked, wicked man! Betrayer, adulterer! Oh, _él es el Diablo_!"

She had continued for a while, alternating between tears and rage, remorse and wrath. Al had tried to talk her 'round to a different point of view, but no matter how many excuses he made for Juan (the irony of making excuses for your wife's lover!) Celestina wasn't about to forgive him. Al had managed to patch things up between Celestina and Sharon, at least so that there weren't any ridiculous suggestions of taking Stevie to the dry cleaner's anymore. The rift between Celestina and her brother-in-law wasn't going to be healed any time soon.

Al felt sick with guilt when he thought about that. The tiny, fractured family that had been struggling so hard to survive together had been shattered beyond repair. That was the crowning contribution of the great Calavicci to these people he had grown so attached to. He had to learn. Some day he had to learn how to stop caring. The punishment for being someone Albert Calavicci cared about was too horrific to afflict on anyone.

They were all about to get another grim lesson in that universal truth, he reflected as he glanced at the exit. He could hear footsteps approaching outside. The missives of failure of therapy were drawing near to the castle walls.

The door opened, and the kind-eyed pediatrician came into the room. Al looked up frantically, but he was pinned beneath the sick child and couldn't rise. Celestina crossed herself and kissed the central gaud of her rosary before tucking it into her pocket. Sharon and Juan avoided her eyes as Doctor Ananda rounded her desk.

"Well," she said. Then she paused and removed her lab coat, draping it over the back of her chair. "These interviews are one of the most painful parts of my work. After the ordeal of chemotherapy, especially if it has not been the first such ordeal, everyone wants good news. Too often, there isn't any to give. I know that Esteban has had a difficult time. He's racked up every ADR on the books. I understand how hard it has been, Mrs. Penja, to watch him suffer this way."

The expression on Celestina's face was heartbreaking. Al looked down at the pale little face resting against his shoulder, because watching his mother at this time was too painful. Another bitter disappointment. Another session when her prayers had not been heard. Al remembered the sting of such disillusionment. God would come through… until you actually needed him. Then? Tough luck.

"It's a difficult decision to put your child through these miseries," Ananda continued.

Here it comes, Al thought, bracing himself for the bad news. More chemo. More poisons. More danger of infections. From the side glances he stole at Sharon, Juan and Celestina, they knew the truth too.

"However, it was the right decision, and Esteban's last series of tests has borne that out." A radiant smile spread across the doctor's face. "Esteban is in full remission."

Even Celestina did not need to ask what that meant. It was the dream, the citadel of hope on which they had all fixed their eyes. In the flood of joy and relief that followed these unexpected tidings, the barriers thrust up by the impending divorce dissolved, at least for an instant.


	44. Chapter FortyThree

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Al sat in the mess hall on Sub-Level Five, forcing himself to eat today's mystery casserole, which smelled vaguely (very vaguely) of cow. It was funny how spoilt a decade of plenty made you. Ten years ago he would have given his right arm for such a dish. Today, despite his empty stomach, it was all he could do to choke it down.

The improvised screwdriver helped a lot. Al had surreptitiously doctored his orange juice, and was now enjoying a glass of brilliant yellow fluid that never seemed to empty—because each time he took a sip, he slipped in a bit more vodka from his hip flask.

He was trying to cut down on expenses, which was why he was doing gastric penance instead of whipping up something decent in his suite. His bank account was sapped dry, and he was doing his best not to rack up any more debt on the VISA. Divorce was never cheap. Divorcing Sharon had proved downright expensive. It wasn't that Al had a bad lawyer, it was just that she had a better one. Not to mention the fact that he had seriously miscalculated. Thinking that once the initial arraignment was over and the charges of adultery were laid out in the cold he would once again be a free agent, he had treated himself to an unforgettable night on the town, and several more delightful little one-night stands. With Stevie officially cancer-free and on the mend, and things at Starbright moving along absolutely swimmingly, Al had been ready to cut loose and have a good time. What he hadn't bargained on was how these indiscretions would reflect on him in court.

Sharon's lawyer had really taken him to the cleaners. Figures. Woman cheats on you and divorces you for her new lover, and when they get you up in the dock they make _you_ look like the philanderer! At least it was over now. Sharon was paid off, and two days ago she and her bricklayer had packed up their cargo-friendly vehicles and taken off on a cross-country convoy tour, destination unknown. Al had his work, he had the knowledge that Stevie was going to live a full and happy life, and he had Chester. In short, he had everything that mattered.

It had been just over a month since the wonderful news about Stevie's remission. He was getting stronger every day, and he was back at school. The color was returning to his cheeks, and his body was filling out again as his appetite returned. There was even a thin, fine black fuzz on his head, that Celestina was certain would grow into a fine crop of curls in no time. Al rode into town every Saturday morning. He would zip Chester into his new jacket, the dog's head sticking out over the zipper, and hit the road right after breakfast. They would play with Stevie, and Al would coach him in English and talk to Celestina. They would eat lunch and supper together, and then Al would say goodbye. He always stopped by the liquor store in the strip mall to stock up on essentials for the week before heading back out to Starbright.

The first time they had tried it, Chester hadn't known what to think, but after that he loved the rides as much as his master did. When Al brought out the leathers, the dog began to leap with ecstasy. He was a little furry Wild One at heart.

If it weren't for the money issues, Al would have been perfectly happy. He was in the hole. Way in the hole. Divorce equals lump sum, and despite the machinations of Gavin Prendergast Stevie's hospital expenses hadn't been taken into account by the bench when meting out compensation to Sharon. Al didn't think she had really been trying to suck him this dry: to be fair, she hadn't had any idea how close to the edge of the financial cliff they had been getting. He had seen to it that she didn't find out, and hoped she never would. Above all, he was going to see to it that Celestina never did.

In any case, the Navy wasn't going to let him sleep in the gutter. He was very comfortably lodged here at the Project, even if it did make liaisons with young lovelies a bit of a challenge. He wasn't going to starve, either, though this wasn't exactly the most appetizing way to get by. His only expenses were gas for the bike, food for Chester, and his little cupboard of liberty.

Sometimes he thought maybe he was drinking too heavily. But no, he decided. He was almost never drunk, and anyway, a man had to have a few little pleasures.

The thought of pleasures reminded him of how nice it would be to have a cigar. Not only would that set him up for a very productive afternoon (they were all very productive afternoons now!), it would also get the taste of this mush out of his mouth. He polished off the last of his screwdriver and made his way upstairs to his office. He could smoke all he wanted in there: it was his own private workspace, after all.

He hadn't been drawing on the Chevillo for more than three minutes when the telephone rang. It wasn't the intra-Project phone, either: it was the outside line. Al let it ring again while he drained his flask of the last four ounces of vodka. It was probably Congressman Davies.

"Calavicci," he said.

"Where the hell is my sister?" a deranged voice demanded.

Al's eyelids fluttered several times. "I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong number," he said mildly, moving to hang up.

"Not if you're Calavicci I don't! Where the hell is Sharon?"

Al recognized the voice at last. He had only ever heard it laughing and boisterous before. This was a whole new context. It belonged to Rich, Sharon's kid brother. He tried to suppress a laugh. "I don't know," he said.

"Topeka, that's where!" Rich cried. "She called me from Topeka last night!"

"Well, then I guess you know where she is," Al said sweetly. "Or where she was last night, since I imagine she's moved on by now. Personally, I didn't even know what direction they were headed in when they—"

"What the hell are you thinking, letting her take off to Kansas like that?" Rich bellowed.

"I had no say in the matter," Al informed him. "We're divorced."

He could almost hear the angry man choking on those words.

"You're… what?" he gasped, as if he was unable to say anything more.

"Divorced. She divorced me. We settled a week ago. She's on holiday with her new man." Somehow saying it blithely that way hurt more than any of the other admissions of this loss. Al dug out the key to the bottom drawer of the desk.

"New man? _New man_?" Poor Rich. He sounded like he was having a coronary embolism just thinking about it. "Damn that woman! You mean she just took off?"

"Just like that," Al agreed. Then something occurred to him. "How'd you get this number?"

"Sharon gave it to me," the other man said absently. "Said in case anything happened with Dad—what the hell am I going to do about Dad?"

"What do you mean? He's in a nursing home, isn't he?" Al asked.

"Yeah, but Sharon took care of the visiting and crap… aw, well. He can just be lonely till she gets back. She is coming back, right?"

"How would I know?" Al said, fumbling with the lock on the drawer. "We're divorced. What she does isn't any of my business anymore." That stung, but he tried to keep his voice light. The drawer was open, anyway, and that was something to be thankful for. His fingers closed on the cool glass object inside.

"Divorced… she get a good deal?"

Al didn't dignify that with an answer. He was too busy refilling his flash with bourbon from the bottom drawer. He balanced the phone between chin and shoulder.

"Aw, forget it. Like you'd tell me. This guy she ran off with—why are they holidaying in Kansas?"

"I don't know!" Al snapped. He took a drink, which blurred the edge of his annoyance. "Until you called I had no idea she was even _in_ Kansas. Now, if you'll excuse me, I really am actually employed here, and I don't have time for this."

"No, wait!" There was a new desperation in Rich's voice now, replacing the anger. "Wait. This guy she ran off with. What do you know about him?"

Al closed his eyes in exasperation. "He's half her age. He's a bricklayer. He's Mexican. He has a sister-and-law and a nephew in Wickenburg."

"That's not what I mean," Rich said. This time the worry in his tone was plain despite his efforts to disguise it beneath a gruff exterior. "I mean… you know… is she gonna be okay? Is he gonna hurt her?"

Al considered this. He liked to think of Juan as a nozzle, but that wasn't really fair. The truth was that he was a hard-working kid with a part time job running letters across the border between Celestina and her husband. He loved Stevie and had brazened out what had to have been an uncomfortable situation to stay with the kid right till the end of his illness. "No," he said resolutely. "No, I don't think he'd hurt her. I'll bet she's having a great time."

"I hope so," Rich admitted. "You know what sisters are like. Can't live with 'em, can't kill 'em."

"Sure," Al said softly, thinking briefly of Trudy. "She'll be fine, Rich. I'll call you up if she gets in touch."

"Thanks," the other man said. Then the line went dead.

Al couldn't reflect on this fraternal love, because a wave of annoyance overtook him. Where did Sharon get off bandying his top-secret landline number to people? HE wasn't supposed to give it out to anyone, except family at his discretion. And Sharon's family wasn't his family anymore.

Sharon's family. Al thought of Pat, all alone in the nursing home with nothing but his own decaying mind to keep him company. What would he do when Sunday rolled around and Sharon didn't come? Would he notice? That was stupid. Of course he would notice. He would be devastated. The man had already lost his wife in a way that was completely senseless to him. Must he also lose his daughter?

As Al turned back to the heap of requisition forms, he made up his mind.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

It was a brilliant, sunny summer day, and the seniors' residence and care home looked very cheerful and domestic—less like a prison or a museum than usual. Al made a slick pass at the pretty young nurse, then made his way up the hall towards Pat's room, striding as nonchalantly as he could in the hopes that no one would notice that he was actually way too skinny to have the kind of beer belly he looked like he was packing under his leather jacket. To his surprise, he could hear voices coming from behind the door. Not wanting to interrupt, he paused to listen.

"And there he was!" Pat was saying. "The great Beiderbecke himself. Boy, I never heard anything like that horn. There was an angel in the man's mouth, blowing away on that cornet. Never heard anything like it. Beautiful. And Mary, she's got tears in her eyes, and I take her out onto the dance floor, and the Wolverines are playing, and there's Bix Beiderbecke bringing heaven to earth with that music…"

Al knocked.

"Who's there?" Pat demanded.

"It's Al Calavicci, Mr. Quinn. Can I come in?"

"What kind of species?" the old man called.

"Not species, sir. Cal-a-vee-chee. Al. It's Al."

The door opened and a young man in black held it open for Al. "It's Aunt Sharon's husband, Grandpa," he said. Then he flushed. "Ex-husband," he amended softly.

Al grinned. "Luke!" he said. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, just stopping by for a visit. You know." Luke shrugged and closed the door. "What about you?"

"Same thing," Al said. "Sounds like you two were having quite the conversation."

"Grandpa saw Bix Beiderbecke!" Luke enthused. "Grandpa, did you know Al met Louis Armstrong?"

"Louis Armstrong?" Pat said. "He was good. Didn't have anything on Beiderbecke, though. Only Kraut I ever liked. Beiderbecke. Now _there_ was a cornet."

Al frowned. "Not sure if I've ever heard him," he said.

"Probably not," Luke said, almost dejectedly. "Nobody has. He died when he was twenty-eight. Drank himself to death. He was a genius. The geniuses always die young."

"Not always," Al pointed out. "There's Armstrong."

"Yeah," Luke allowed glumly. "But he was a happy genius. The unhappy ones always die young."

Pat slapped the boy's knee. "You cheer up! That's no way to talk! It's a Sunday! Be happy! Sharon will be here soon. My Sharon visits every Sunday."

"Actually, Pat, that's why I'm here," Al said. "Sharon couldn't come, so I decided I would instead."

Pat looked up, startled. "Sharon couldn't come?" he echoed unhappily.

"No, not this week," Al said. "But I brought someone to meet you." He unzipped his coat and produced Chester, who had been dozing comfortably against his abdomen. The terrier yawned and looked around.

Pat frowned. "What's that?" he said suspiciously.

"This is Chester. He's my dog. I didn't like to leave him alone all day, so I brought him with me."

"That's not a dog, that's a guinea pig!" Pat exclaimed.

Al affected indignation. "Is not!" he said with a good-natured huff. "I'll show you. Speak, boy! Speak!"

Chester barked. Pat grinned. "So it is a dog!" he said. "Let me have him here!" He laughed as he took the animal and stroked his fur. "What'd you say his name was?"

"Chester," Al said.

"Chester," Pat repeated. "Pleased to meet you, Chester. Chester, this is Luke. Good boy. Dresses funny, though. But that's okay. Al dresses funny to. I do, myself. Nothing wrong with that, eh?"

Al hadn't expected the dog would go over so well. Pat spent the better part of an hour talking to and about him. Eventually, Luke got to his feet and announced with apathy that he had to get home. Al excused himself hastily, leaving the old man in charge of the dog, and followed the boy into the corridor.

"Got stuck visiting Gramps, huh?" Al asked.

Luke shook his head. "No, I wanted to come," he said.

Al hadn't really expected that. He had thought the kid had been driven here at gunpoint, and had been about to congratulate him for not letting his disappointment in the waste of his weekend—as most kids his age would have seen such a task—show. "You did?"

"Yeah," Luke said. "I know I never really learned how to relate to Grandpa, but since Aunt Sharon ran off with that bricklayer I knew he'd be by himself. Not much fun to be by yourself."

"You sound like you know what you're taking about," Al said softly.

"Yeah," Luke grunted. "So I've never fit in. Big deal. It's not like you'd know what that's like."

"You'd be surprised," Al told him.

"Sure. War hero, astronaut, captain in the Navy. I can tell you have trouble fitting in." There was the slightest hint of sarcasm in his voice. Al got the impression that the boy had been having a miserable week.

"You want to talk about it?" Al asked.

As he had expected, Luke shook his head.

"Okay. I respect that," Al told him. He knew how important it was to give folks space when they didn't want to talk. He also knew, however, what it felt like to feel you could never approach anyone or unload the crushing burden weighing on your mind. He didn't know what to do, so he fell back on a cliché.

"Listen," he said quietly, pulling out one of his cards and scribbling the number to his private line onto the back. "You ever need anything, give me a call, okay? This is my night number, and this one on the front is where you can reach me during the day. Anything you need, you call me."

"Seriously?" Luke asked, and there was something like wonder in his eyes.

"Seriously," Al promised.

The boy's glum expression melted into a smile. "Thanks," he said. "You're excellent, Uncle Al."

Al shrugged off the compliment. "What are ex-uncles for?" he asked.

Luke left and Al went back to sit with Pat. After a while the old man hid Chester under his lap robe, and Al wheeled him out onto the grounds. They spent about an hour in the sun, then went back inside. Pat was getting sleepy, so Al helped him into bed and said his goodbyes. Then he tucked Chester back inside his jacket and departed.

The night was young, so he went cruising on the bike. It didn't take him long to find a girl. Her name was Sandy and she was a parking meter attendant who happened to dote on small dogs. Al treated her to an _al fresco_ meal (purchased from a hot dog vendor downtown), and then they went up to her apartment. It was actually a very good day. He was glad he'd decided to head out here.


	45. Chapter FortyFour

Note: Excerpts from King Lear by William Shakespeare, III,iv; IV,I and V,iii.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Sharon, Quinn once more, pushed her armchair two inches to the left and surveyed the result. She smiled contentedly and slid into the seat from the side, so that her knees crooked over the armrest. She felt younger than she had in years. After seven weeks on the road with Juan, she was ready to settle down again into an adult life. Those had been great weeks: no worries, no responsibility. They had lived with total spontaneity, eating when they wanted, stopping where they wished, and making love in the back of her van every time the mood took them. It had been marvelous… for a little while. Then one morning she had awakened in a parking lot somewhere in the Ozarks, and realized that this wasn't what she wanted, either.

That day she had had it out with Juan. Sharon had gone into the conversation expecting a fierce squabble. She had even been a little anxious going up against the burly laborer. To her surprise, Juan had shrugged. "Do what's right for you," he had said. At least he was consistent.

Now she was back in Wickenburg. She had gotten her stuff out of storage and moved it into her new four-room apartment in the suburb where she taught her classes during the year. She was busy drawing up proposals for her classes in the fall, and gradually settling into the new pad. Two months of rambling had been great: a re-enactment of the carefree summers of her college years and her experiences with the artistic set in the 'sixties. She had reveled in the chance to release her anxieties and live for the moment. She had cut loose and followed her urge to be a kid again. Now, looking around her living room studio, she felt like a girl who, having left home for the first time and taken off on a wild adventure, was now taking possession of her first apartment and settling into a life of maturity and responsibility for the very first time. It was an almost magical sensation.

She glanced at her easel, where she had placed the envelope full of payroll forms and union agreements. She wanted to laugh out loud. She had done it. After all these years, Sharon Quinn had finally done it. Within forty-eight hours of coming back, that envelope had arrived at Nancy's house. It contained a letter of salutations and congratulations, and all the prework she would require before going in for her first day as the Artist in Residence of the Wickenburg municipality. It was a great post. It meant visits to schools, mentoring of aspiring artists, offering seminars, and similar activities. It also meant forty hours a week on union pay—the closest thing to a "real" job that Sharon had ever had, and with all the creative liberty she needed! It would be nothing but blue skies this year.

Blue skies and affluence, she reflected happily. While she had never been dead broke, the years of having _just_ enough had left her wishing for better times. Now they were here. Divorce was usually to a woman's advantage, and this one had been no exception. She had been astonished at Al's foolishness: running off right after the arraignment to get laid. It had proved to her advantage, but she hoped he wasn't hurting too much for money. That wasn't the point. As nice as it was to know her monthly income—between interest on Heinrich's lump settlement, the interest that Rich could get her on Al's, the regular spousal support payments he owed her, and her impending salary—would amount to more than four thousand dollars, she didn't like to think that Al had to go hungry because of it.

Not that he would, of course. The divorce laws were carefully formulated so as to provide fair and equitable settlements. That was how her lawyer had explained it. She didn't need to panic over Al.

She wondered how he was doing. She had wanted to call him, but hadn't quite worked up the courage to do so. What excuse did she have for phoning her ex-husband? _Oh, hi, Al. Just wondering if you're eating properly. Getting enough sleep? What about work: you aren't letting work get to you, are you?_ Yeah, right. He'd hang up.

She already had someone to take care of: she didn't need Al. The clock was showing a quarter to ten, which meant if she wanted to be up at Daddy's at the usual time she had to leave now. Instinctively, she whistled for the dog, remembering with a pang that Al had him. Well, he _had_ been Al's dog from the start, now hadn't he?

She collected her purse and keys and left the apartment.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

Sharon drew a deep breath before heading down the corridor to Pat's room. She was anxious about what she would find. When she had last seen him nine weeks ago, he had been going through a rough time. Would he be worse? She had a feeling… she was afraid that he would be. Angry, hurting, confused…

She opened the door and had to pause at the sight that greeted her.

Pat was in his wheelchair as usual, but in his lap was Chester, grooming his forepaws contentedly. Al occupied the visitor's chair, and seated on the edge of the bed was Luke. Luke! Who never showed an interest in anything! They each held a battered script.

"_He met the night-mare, and her nine-fold_;" Al was saying. "_Bid her alight, and her troth plight, and, aroint thee, witch, aroint thee!_"

"_How fares your grace_?" Luke asked, leaning in towards his grandfather with concern in his eyes.

Pat pointed an unsteady finger at Al. "_What's he_?" he demanded.

"_Who's there? What is't you seek?_" Luke asked. Then his voice grew deeper and gravelly, as if he was now portraying a different character.

"_Poor Tom_," Al answered, lolling his head to one side like a madman; "_that eats the swimming frog, the toad, the tadpole, the wall-newt and the water; that in the fury of his heart, when the foul fiend rages, eats cow-dung for sallets; swallows the… old rat and the ditch-dog; drinks the green—gr—green mantle of the standing pool; who is… who is whipped from tithing to tithing, a—and stock-punished, and imprisoned—_"

He stopped abruptly, the words catching in his throat. He cast his eyes away from his script. "Shit," he muttered, coloring deeply.

Luke looked up from his book. "Is something wrong, Uncle Al—oh!" he exclaimed, seeing the intruder. "Aunt Sharon!"

Al whirled so quickly that he almost fell off the chair. "Sharon!" he cried as if seizing the distraction with both hands. "What… what are you doing here?"

The retort that she always came here on Sundays died on Sharon's lips. "I'm back," she said. "I had a great holiday."

"Holid—right," Al said, looking at her oddly. "So… uh…"

"Hi, Daddy," Sharon said, raising her voice so that he could hear her. "How are you?"

"Where have you been?" Pat demanded. "Your mother's been worried sick—and don't tell me you've run off and got married! I don't want to hear it!"

Sharon froze. It was a bad day. "Daddy…" she breathed.

His face softened and he held out his hand for her to take. "That's my girl; I'm not angry," he said. "We're reading _King Lear_. I'm Lear. You sit down and join us. You can be… which don't you want, boy? Kent or Gloucester?"

"Aunt Sharon can read Kent," Luke said generously. "I like Gloucester better."

"That's okay, really," Sharon demurred. "I'm not much of an actress—"

"Come on!" Pat commanded. "Sit down and share the script with Luke. We'll give you parts as we go. You can be all the women—"

"Oh, no, really—"

"There are only three of them, and I say you can be them!" her father said. "Now, Al. Where were you?"

Al skimmed the page. "Uh…_peace, thou fiend!_"

"That's not it at all!" Pat exclaimed. "You skipped half that speech! Go back to _who is whipped._"

Al smiled thinly and cleared his throat. "_Who is whipped from tithing to tithing,_" he said, and his eyes began to take on a haunted look. "_And stock-punished._" He shuddered convulsively, though he tried to hide it. "_And imprisoned; who hath had three suits to his back, six shirts to his body, horse to ride, and weapon to wear; But mice and rats, and such small deer, Have been Tom's food for six long year—_"

"Seven," Luke corrected. _"Seven long year._"_  
_

"Right," Al breathed. He looked suddenly rather old and careworn "_For seven long year. Beware my follower. Peace, Smulkin; peace, thou fiend!_"

"_What, hath your grace no better company_?" Luke asked his grandfather.

Al cast his eyes towards the ceiling. "_The prince of darkness is a gentleman!_" he howled. Pat applauded appreciatively. Al turned wide, crazed eyes on him, once more absorbed in the character. "_Modo he's call'd, and Mahu_."

Luke shook his head. "_Our flesh and blood is grown so vile, my lord, that it doth hate what gets it,_" he said mournfully.

Al hugged himself. "_Poor Tom's a-cold_," he chattered.

They read through the whole play. It was actually a lot more fun than Sharon had expected it would be, and Al almost made her cry when he came to "_Bless thy sweet eyes: they bleed_." Finally he looked up, moving his captivating brown-eyed gaze from one face to the next.

"_The weight of this sad time,_" Al said, his voice so full of emotion that one almost believed that he _was_ Edgar, the future King of England; "_we must obey: speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest hath borne most: we that are young shall never see so much, nor live so long_."

There was a silence, and then Pat clapped his hands and whooped with delight. "How 'bout that!" he said. "Great performance everyone! We otta be on Broadway!"

After that they went outside. Luke pushed Dad's chair, and Al and Sharon slowly fell behind, until they couldn't be heard by either the man or the boy.

"How are you?" Al asked.

"Great."

"Are you and Juan…" He gestured suggestively.

She shook her head. "Naw. I dumped him."

"Really?" He cocked an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Really," she said. "You didn't think—you did! You dirty rat! You think he left me for a younger woman!"

"I didn't say that," Al growled, and she could see the armor going back up.

"How are you?" she asked.

The one-word response came flat and unreadable. "Peachy."

She considered this. He didn't look as weary as he had the last time she had seen him, but he was still too thin and there was something in his eyes that wasn't right. "Really?" she asked.

"Really."

"Are you eating properly?"

"All my green beans and everything," he answered.

She laughed a little. Her fault for asking. "What about the dreams?" she asked softly. "Are you still having nightmares?"

He turned on her, glaring ferociously. "What kind of a question is that?" he demanded.

Sharon backed up a little, surprised by the vehemence in his voice. "I was just asking," she said meekly.

"Well, don't!" Al snapped. "This Mommy act was bad enough when we were married. Coming from a wife I could maybe put up with it, but from a casual acquaintance—just leave it alone, Sharon!"

"Fine!" she said. "Fine! I was just trying to be nice. You think I actually give a damn? Think again, Calavicci!"

"I don't want you to give a damn!" Al cried. "I want you to go away and leave me in peace!"

"Leave _you_ in peace? _You're_ the one stalking my family!" The fighting instinct was as strong as ever. They still drove each other crazy.

"I'm not stalking them! You're the one who took off on your little mid-life vision quest and left the old guy alone!" Al shouted. "Someone had to come and visit him!"

"Oh, yeah?" Sharon retorted. "And what about Luke? How'd you rope him into this?"

"I didn't rope him into anything!" Al snarled. "He came by himself. He's a good kid."

He gave her one more look of disgust and marched away. She was glad, because if he hadn't she would have grabbed him and tried to kiss him.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

Al wasn't at the nursing home the next Sunday, nor did he appear the Sunday after that. Sharon knew he didn't want to see her, but she wanted to see him. She wasn't convinced that everything was okay with him, and she couldn't seem to stop worrying. Added to that was their last parting. In hot blood as it had been, it had left her without the usual closure to their fights. As twisted as it sounded, she wouldn't mind a fling with her ex-husband. After two months' separation she kind of missed him—not the arguments or the daily aggravations, but the passionate nights… _those_ she missed! But she didn't want to admit it, least of all to Al.

If only she had an excuse to see him, she thought, raking her brush across the canvas. She couldn't very well just turn up at the gates of his secret project. It was too bad the court battle had turned out to be so straightforward. When Nancy and Harold had got their divorce they had fought for months over the kids. That had been terrible, of course, but they had had all kinds of chances to see each other...

A wicked grin spread itself over her face. She knew what to do! It would be great. The perfect pretext for a reunion with her dashing Italian ex. She set down her palette and picked up the phone.

"Bradfield, Hilliard and Busby, Attorneys-at-Law," the Texan secretary drawled.

"Busby, please," Sharon said. The line rang through again.

"Busby." The cool voice of her attorney came up on the other end.

"Nancy!" Sharon cried eagerly. "Nancy, remember how you said if I wanted custody of the dog…"


	46. Chapter FortyFive

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

A rough, flat tongue rescued him. It lapped away the tears of terror and humiliation that were coursing uncontrollably down his cheeks. It banished Quon and the Bitch, and Dope and Slacker and Mussolini, back into Hell where they belonged. That little tongue made the ropes dissolve and the chains fall away. It brought back the soft, warm bed in the Starbright compound. It offered protection from the empty, suffocating darkness around him. It gave him sanctuary from the bitter and wretched loneliness.

As the paralysis of terror began to dissipate, Al's hands crept up towards his little savior. Chester turned and licked his wrist before once again focusing on his face. Al's hands encircled the dog's warm little body and he rolled onto his back, drawing the terrier onto his chest. Chester lay down on his sternum, forepaws curling over his left shoulder where it joined his neck. He continued his gentle ministrations, lapping at his master's neck and jaw. His soothing weight eased the desperate hammering of the heart beneath it, and as Al's fingers moved through the silky fur he began to calm himself. The frantic, gasping breaths leveled out and his tense muscles began to let go. Finally he was able to reach out and switch on the bedside lamp.

The light drove away most of the terror, but the bed was damp with sweat and his bare skin felt clammy and filthy. Al got out of bed, supporting Chester against his chest. Shaking legs carried him to the bathroom, where he set the dog on the counter next to the sink. The Yorkie sat down and began to sniff at his new surroundings. Al climbed into the shower.

The hot water beat down upon him, igniting nerves left raw and throbbing by the nightmare. The soap lathered itself against his skin as he scrubbed his body violently, and the streaming liquid carried it away, taking with the foam the imagined filth as well as the real film of perspiration. Al's skin was red and tender when he finally reached out to manipulate the faucet. The jet of fluid went from almost scalding to icy cold in seconds. Al let out a startled gasp that went a long way towards clearing his lungs of the lingering jungle humidity. When his teeth were chattering and bracing shivers ran up and down his spine, he turned off the shower and stood there, leaning heavily on the wall. He was wet and cold and trembling, but suddenly the frosted glass door seemed incredibly daunting.

He stared at it, hugging his quivering body. The vague uneasiness he always felt in small spaces was overridden by a paralyzing dread of the unknown. What was out there, beyond that flimsy barrier? Still fragile from the night terror, his psyche was unable to reconcile the rational voice telling him that nothing could hurt him here with the pervasive anxiety and the feeling of danger. You could never tell what would happen. If he left the confines of this controlled space…

It was stupid. It was irrational. He was ashamed of it. Still, he couldn't talk himself out of the terror. His shivering was growing worse, and his jaw was clicking so forcefully that he was almost afraid his teeth would shatter with the force. With a tiny whimper of misery he sank onto the floor of the shower, hugging his knees to his chest.

There was plaintive bark from the other side of the glass door. Al stiffened, raising his head out of its posture of dejection. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

Another bark sounded out. This time Al managed to croak out a response. "Chester?" he rasped. Another bark, this one eager and welcoming. "Good boy," Al breathed. The knowledge that he wasn't alone gave him the courage he needed to push open the door and crawl out of the shower. The terrier wagged his tail happily as his owner came into view. He was standing at the very edge of the counter, looking quizzically down at Al.

"Hey, buddy," Al mumbled, reaching for a towel and wrapping it around his quivering shoulders. He got to his feet and dried himself, pausing periodically to stroke Chester's back. Removing the cold water warmed him a little, but he was still far from comfortable. Borrowing courage from Chester, Al carried the dog back into the bedroom, and set him on the bed as he looked for something to wear. He needed distraction to shake the last ghosts of the dream.

After donning some colorful street clothes and a pair of tennis shoes, Al went into the kitchenette, this time trusting Chester enough to follow him. His legs were trembling and there was a palsy in his hands. He took out the whiskey and poured himself a glass. It warmed him further, but upon contact with the alcohol his stomach snarled. He paused. Had he eaten supper? He couldn't remember.

The clock caught his eye. Two in the morning. Lovely. He had slept for all of ninety minutes—maybe less: he wasn't certain how long he had been in the shower. He wasn't really likely to get any more tonight. It was going to be a long and difficult vigil.

He opened the refrigerator without much hope of finding anything. He hadn't bought groceries for almost two months. There was, of course, nothing. A couple bottles of condiments and the ceramic dish full of baking soda, and that was it. The cupboards held a few spices and an empty pasta jar. With a weary sigh, Al turned away from the disheartening sight. He spent half his life forcing himself to eat, and when he was actually hungry, there was nothing to be had.

He took another glass of whiskey to quiet the hunger pangs, and then looked down at the terrier watching him with eager and adoring eyes. Al knelt and scratched him under the chin. "What do you think, buddy?" he asked. "Should we go for a walk?"

Chester yelped happily. He thought that idea was gangbusters.

Al went to the living room and collected the dog's leash. Chester stood still, his tail whipping wildly, as Al attached it to his collar. He couldn't take the terrier wandering around the Project during the day, but at two in the morning they could wander where they pleased. There was some loose change on the counter, and Al tucked it into his pocket. Maybe he could pick up something to eat after all.

He helped himself to one more nip of whiskey before leaving the suite and locking the door carefully behind him.

Al let Chester lead, keeping a good hold on the leash. He trusted the terrier not to get into things he shouldn't, but tonight he couldn't stand the trauma of seeing the dog run off on him, even if it was only around the corner. Loneliness was eating away at him, and terror lingered on the edge of his consciousness.

It had been a bad one tonight. They were all bad ones, he thought sardonically, but when the Bitch was involved, especially so. It wasn't just American women who were more imaginative than the men.

She was a V.C. soldier—quite a high-ranking one, too. Quon's tall, gaunt and grimly beautiful protégé. She could do things with a whip that Al had never imagined a person could do, and she knew more about anatomy than the internists at Balboa. She was aware of the thousands of ways the human body could be bent and twisted without killing it, and she knew the places where pain would be most appreciated. When she directed an "interrogation", the prisoner lost all control over his body. She knew exactly what to do to cause debasing muscle spasms in areas you hadn't even imagine that you _had_ muscles. She had an uncanny ability for finding the places you least wanted to be touched and harming you there. They were unexpected places, too: the pulpy indentation behind your earlobe, the place where your lowest rib met your spine, and one spot on the back of the skull where the tiniest pressure caused blinding anguish.

She had a way, too, of making you see her vision of your future. There wasn't a session you could have with the Bitch that didn't end with you begging for release—not to escape the present pain, but to avoid the horrors her broken English promised. Horrors beyond your most fevered imaginings. The humiliation of capitulating to something that wasn't even real was worst of all…

Kind of like giving in to a nightmare, Al reflected blackly as he summoned the elevator. It had to stop. Somehow he had to make it stop. The nightly glass of hard liquor wasn't working anymore. Maybe he needed more than a glassful.

He flinched at the thought. He couldn't really afford that. As it was, he was chipping away at his deficit at the stellar rate of fifty-one dollars a month. At the rate he was going, they would be celebrating the centenary of the Vietnam War before he was clear. He couldn't say why this bothered him. He had had mortgages before, and other debt, but _this _particular one was troublesome.

Everything was troublesome, he thought as he pushed a button at random and knelt to pet Chester. Life was just one never-ending problem.

"Good thing I've got you to count on, buddy," Al murmured, fondling the terrier's head. "You don't think I belong in a rubber room, do you?"

Chester indicated through much ferocious tail-wagging that he didn't. Al grinned.

"Good boy."

The door opened, and they stepped out onto Sub-Level Four. "Hey, good choice!" Al told the dog, as if he was the one who had pressed the button. No official work went on in the chem labs after eight. Sub-Level Six and the synchrotron were always on line, always staffed, but the chemistry staff kept more regular hours. The one exception was Thorgard, who would sometimes pull late-night duty in the main lab, absorbed in some experiment. The more time he spent with the aging scientist, the better Al like him. He was the one head of department who didn't have constant complaints, who wouldn't dig in his heels when you needed something from him. He reminded Al of Doctor Urquhart, his first-year chem prof from M.I.T. Seemed like centuries ago.

The lab was empty tonight, the lights turned down and the biotoxin containment hoods humming in their eternal rhythm. Al closed the door and let Chester off his leash. He pranced off across the room, exploring eagerly. Al watched him for a while, but he was tired and his back was starting to ache, so he settled in the lounge alcove, resting his feet on the coffee table and leaning back against the sofa. The dim glow of the vending machines in the corner didn't hurt his tired eyes, and it felt great just to lie back and relax…

He must have dozed off, because when he sat up Chester was perched on top of him, hind paws in his lap and forepaws on his breast pocket. Al smiled at him. Then his stomach snarled noisily. He laughed and glanced at the clock. Four in the morning. So he had dozed off.

"What do you think?" Al asked Chester. "Bedtime? Going to keep the Bogeyman away again?"

Chester snuffled at his chin fondly. He'd keep the Bogeyman away if he could. If not, at least he'd help chase it off again.

"Thanks," Al said. He ruffled the fur between Chester's ears. "This is pretty crazy, huh?" he asked. "Sitting here at four in the morning, talking to a dog."

Chester licked his hand. _He_ didn't think it was crazy.

"All right. Let's go and try to catch some shut-eye." Al got to his feet with a weary grunt. Chester stood obediently while he put on the leash again. Then his eyes fell on the vending machines, and he dug in his pocket, sifting through the change. He had just enough for a candy bar. His much-belated supper in hand, he left the lab and made his way back towards the elevator.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

It was "lunch" hour for the night shift at Human Resources. Dan Penvenen removed his headset. It had been a slow night. In fact, the whole month had been dull. Calavicci had apparently reformed. Since his divorce he had been keeping regular hours once again. He had even taken up residence at the Project, which made keeping track of his nocturnal activities _much_ easier! Colonel Smythe, Chief of Project Security and a Marine with little use for washed-up Naval pilots, was a Grade-A cooperator. Calavicci always left the premises on Saturday morning and was usually back on Sunday afternoon, implying that he was still indulging in his lecherous tendencies—probably with his luscious Mexican mistress. So far, though, Penvenen had not seen any evidence of drinking on-site. It wasn't strictly prohibited, of course—not outside working hours. Still, it would make things easier.

He opened his bottom drawer. Resting on top of his black book, which was almost full and would soon spill into another volume, was the biography that Congressman Davies had sent him in the spring. It was a very… _illuminating_ text. Dan wasn't one to believe everything he saw in print, but he had a close friend who had spent time with Margaret Dawson ten years ago, when the war was at its height and she was trying (unsuccessfully) to carve out a name for herself in her first career. She was a promiscuous woman with a strong instinct for a story, but she wasn't a sensationalist. This particular volume was probably as accurate a portrayal of Calavicci's background as he was likely to get.

He had read it four times already, and this time was marking passages of import. If Davies was correct in his suspicion about Calavicci's mental state, these passages might come in handy…

Tonight, though, Dan couldn't seem to focus. The words seemed to swim before his eyes, and some of the more graphic passages were uncommonly nauseating. Dan liked to think of himself as a man with a strong stomach, and knowing who had been subjected to these atrocities made it easier to stand, but for some reason it was difficult to maintain perspective this evening.

With a small sigh of frustration he set aside The Men Left Behind, and left the office, informing his coworker where he was going.

The residential wing was very quiet. Even the night owls who could sit up poring over theorems until all hours were abed. Dan made his way to his quarters—one hundred and seven square feet of painstakingly organized space, each inch utilized in the most efficient manner possible. In the corner housing the sink, stove and refrigerator, he fixed himself a nice sensible turkey sandwich, which he washed down with a pint of apple juice. After eating several carrot sticks and a stalk of celery, Dan then indulged in a small pleasure: seven semisweet chocolate chips and a marshmallow. Having taken sufficient sustenance to suffice until morning, he went into the closet-sized bathroom and shaved off the five hours' growth on his jaw. He placed a quick call on the outside line that no one on the Project was aware that he had. Then he was ready to head back upstairs and give the book another try.

As he approached the elevator, it opened. Dan had to fight back a grin of glee. Calavicci! Wearing a hideous green outfit and leading, on a leash, a _dog_. Dan had to look twice to make absolutely certain that he was seeing what he seemed to be. Yes, it was definitely a dog. A small, furry mammal… and one with sharper eyes than its owner. It saw him and yipped in greeting.

Calavicci looked around in confusion, his bloodshot and shadowed eyes stupid with liquor and lack of sleep. Even at this distance he reeked of whiskey, Ivory soap and peanuts. His eyes fell on Dan, who fabricated a pleasant smile.

"Good morning, Captain!" he said sunnily.

Calavicci frowned. "Morning?" he asked. "What time is it?"

"Twenty-two minutes after four," Dan offered, not even looking at his watch. "What are you doing out so early?"

"Taking a walk… you?"

"This is my dinner break."

"Oh. Right. Night core… everything quiet?"

"It was," Dan said, daring a glace of distaste at the dog. "Who is this?"

"Who?" The drunken man looked around in confusion. Penvenen pointed condescendingly. "Oh! That's Chester."

"How delightful. Is it a specimen from the labs?"

Fury flashed through the captain's eyes. "No! He's my dog!"

"Oh. My mistake." Dan forced himself to bend and pet the animal's head. "Pleased to meet you, Chester." He straightened before the hideous creature could attack him with that overfriendly tongue it was brandishing.

Calavicci smiled as proudly as a new father showing off his offspring. "He's a good boy," he announced.

"Indeed." Dan took a step towards the lifts, then paused. "I wasn't aware that pets were allowed on the premises," he commented innocuously.

"Yeah, well, they probably aren't," Calavicci said, shrugging as if he didn't give a damn about the regulations. "Why?"

"No reason at all," Dan said pleasantly. Then he stepped into the elevator and left the inebriated Administrator behind. He wouldn't be reading tonight. At least, he wouldn't be reading The Men Left Behind. He had some quality time to spend with the Project rules and regulations.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWM_

Whenever the sound of the outside line rang out from the Administrator's office, Eulalie did her best to listen. It was not a very common event, and there was always the chance that it was Washington, passing on some earth-shattering decision.

Today, she didn't need to strain to hear the captain's half of the conversation.

"She _WHAT_?" he roared. "She can't do that! He's mine!"

There was a pause.

"No! No, he was mine before we were even married—God damn it, before I met the woman! She can't—I don't CARE about Arizona civil law, you pencil-pushing nozzle, she can't take him! I'm not going to let her take him!" A stunned silence was followed by an enraged roar. "_Of course I'm fighting it! How stupid are you?_"

Then there was a loud, hollow bang, and another silence. After a moment, she could swear she heard something that sounded like crying or hyperventilating.

Eulalie got cautiously to her feet. She worried about Captain Calavicci. He always seemed tired and strained. He only ate about half his meals in the downstairs mess, which made it impossible to keep track of how much he was eating, but he seemed so sallow and thin recently. And of course, everyone knew about the divorce. It was sad that such a great guy was having such a rotten time.

There was silence behind his door now. Wanting to make sure he was okay, Eulalie opened his door.

"Captain, is everything—" She stopped mid-sentence. He was in the midst of taking a long quaff from a silver hip flask. She flushed. "I'm… I'm sorry…" she said softly.

He hid the flask hastily under his desk and looked at her, smiling his lovable smile. "It's okay, Eulie," he said cheerfully. "What can I do for you?"

"N-nothing…" she stammered. "I just wondered… is everything all right?"

"Perfect, gorgeous," he said with a radiant grin. "Couldn't be better!"

"I… I'm glad…" she faltered.

"Sure, me too! Who wouldn't be glad with such a beautiful secretary?" Captain Calavicci said.

Eulalie flushed a little. No matter what, he could always make you feel like a movie star. "I'll let you get back to work," she said, pulling the door closed. As she did so, she swore she could see a flicker of something silver.

She turned back to her desk, more worried than ever. If only there was somebody she could confide in…

Then she remembered. That nice young man from Human Resources. He had been concerned about the captain, hadn't he? Knowing he was on night duty, she dialed his quarters directly. It only took two rings for him to pick up.

"Penvenen here," he said crisply.

"Hello. It's Eulalie Pharris, Captain Calavicci's secretary. I wondered, have you noticed anything odd going on with the captain lately?"

"What do you mean?" the man asked kindly.

Eulalie told him. "I'm sorry to bother you. It seems silly now," she said. "I just… needed to talk. I'm worried about him."

"You did exactly the right thing," Penvenen told her firmly. "I'm worried about him, too."

Eulalie smiled in relief. Captain Calavicci had more than one person looking out for him, then. "Thank you," she said earnestly.

There was a strangely satisfied note to Penvenen's voice as he said, "You're most welcome, ma'am."

Just as she hung up, the door to the office opened, and the Project Administrator came out, stumbling a little on the stripping joining the two different carpets. Eulalie looked at him. He had aged five years in as many minutes.

"Eulie, I've had a call from my lawyer," he said flatly. "There are some things I need to work out. If anyone needs me, I'll be in my quarters."

She watched him go, and then went back to work as if nothing had happened. After all, worrying about him was one thing, but life had to go on regardless.


	47. Chapter FortySix

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Sharon had been making eyes at him all morning, and still he wasn't noticing. He was too busy cradling the dog in his lap and hanging on every word the two attorneys spouted. Personally, Sharon made a point of never paying attention to the court proceedings. Nancy was one of the best, and you could always rely upon her to cut you a good deal. She'd been Sharon's babysitter way back when, and had seemed like the natural choice when it came time to divorce Heinrich. She had cut a great deal for Sharon then, and an equally excellent one with Al. The more freedom you gave her, the better things turned out.

Besides, Sharon didn't really care about the results of the hearing. Win or lose didn't matter. Sure, it would be _nice_ to have Chester back. He was a loveable little furball, and she had some ideas for paintings that he would be able to help with, but if she didn't get him she'd hardly be heartbroken. What she wanted was to get Al in the back of her van.

He was gorgeous, she reflected. With that keen, piercing intelligence ignited in his dark eyes, there wasn't a man in the state who could hold a candle to him. That was a stupid expression, Sharon reflected. What the hell did it mean, anyway? Oh, well. Her ex was still unbelievably good-looking. No matter how hard he tried to subdue them, the curls always gave him a boyish air. Today was no exception, and with the faintest hint of an anxious frown tugging at the corners of his mouth, he looked more like an errant teenager waiting outside the principal's office than a forty-eight-year-old ex-astronaut with nothing to look forward to in his waning years but an eternity behind a desk and tomorrow's one-night stand.

Sharon let her eyes wander from his face to the rest of his body. His shoulders: beginning to slope a little with age and more stooped than they should have been, as though they were weary from bearing burdens the rest of the world could only imagine; but still ineffably sexy. His chest with its pale skin and fine black hair, webbed with faint but indelible scars—all three characteristics were covered by his orange paisley shirt and creamy vest. Through the silk satin backing of the latter, she could just make out the ridge of his spine. She liked to run her fingers up and down his vertebrae in the gasping moments between passions, feeling his vulgar inhalations from above as well as below as her hands caught here and there on still more scars. She eyed his belt, beneath which the crest of his hip bone was visible: his handsome, chiseled him. Yes, he was gorgeous…

He was also angry. He sprung to his feet, carrying Chester with him. "That's not fair!" he cried. "She was there with me!"

"Captain…" his lawyer hissed.

The justice, a man of about Al's age by the name of George Goldman, brought down his gavel. "Captain Calavicci!" he said. "I understand you have made appearances in civil court before today."

Al's eyes narrowed. "Yes, your honor," he said suspiciously.

"How many times?"

"Counting arraignments?"

"All appearances."

"Well…" Al's brow crinkled pensively. "My first divorce… I mean my second… we went back six times before they settled it all… twelve," he said firmly. "Twelve times, your honor. This is my thirteenth appearance."

"Good," the judge drawled. "So you're familiar with the process."

"Yes, your honor," Al allowed.

"Then you know that you'll have your turn to speak!" Goldman snapped. "So sit down and wait for it!" Al sat with the crispness of a soldier responding to a hated command. "Counsel for the plaintiff will continue her statement."

"That incident is only one such example, your honor," Nancy said. "I intend to show through several such events that Captain Calavicci is an irresponsible pet owner and an unfit custodian for dear little Chester. For his safety and wellbeing he should be placed under Ms. Quinn's care immediately." She nodded crisply to the bench and sat down next to Sharon.

"Defendant. Your statement," Goldman said boredly.

Al's lawyer stood. Gavin Prendergast was a tall man with a gourmet stomach: flabby from too much champagne and caviar. He was a top-notch family lawyer and had given Nancy a real run for her money over the divorce settlement.

"Your honor," he said; "my client is a distinguished citizen, a decorated war hero, a former astronaut, and a senior ranking officer in the United States Navy. You see before you a man who has given the very years of his prime, the very flesh off his back, and the very blood in his veins for his country. For _our_ country. This is a man who, far from being the absent-minded pet owner my opponent would have you believe him to be, is a man entrusted with great authority and responsibility. This is a man who is capable of making decisions affecting dozens—potentially hundreds—of lives. He is perfectly able to care for one small dog."

He circled the table and took possession of the floor. "In addition, your honor, Captain Calavicci has a deep, abiding affection for _dear little Chester_. He dotes upon the dog. Fate did not bless Captain Calavicci with children; Chester is like a son to him. In the interests of the captain's wellbeing, he should be allowed to retain custody of the dog."

He returned to his place and sat.

"Plaintiff," Goldman said.

Nancy rose again, smiling at Sharon. "Ms. Quinn, would you please take the stand?"

Sharon rose and went to sit down in the box next to the bench. She smoothed her skirt and crossed her ankles primly, turning ever so slightly towards the judge as she donned the expression of sweet innocence that Nancy had coached her on.

"Now, Ms. Quinn," Nancy said; "please tell us a little bit about the domestic arrangements that you and the captain had during your marriage."

Sharon looked at her blankly. Domestic arrangements?

Like a good counselor, Nancy picked up on her confusion at once. "Tell us where you were living," she prompted.

"Here in town," Sharon said. Then suddenly she thought she saw where Nancy was going. "In the Rising Sun Trailer Park on the west edge of the city."

"In a trailer park?" Nancy said in mild surprise, as if they were not all already aware of the fact. "Can you describe your dwelling in more detail?"

"It was a trailer," Sharon said. "Four rooms and a bathroom with a shower instead of a tub. It cost six hundred a month."

"Four rooms and a bathroom without a tub," Nancy reiterated, looking coldly at Al. "An interesting choice of residence for a decorated war hero, a former astronaut, and a senior ranking officer in the United States Navy."

Al looked like he wanted to bite her head off, but he glanced at Goldman and sat back, petting Chester almost wrathfully. The terrier's eyes closed in bliss under the pressure, and he licked his black button nose happily.

Nancy turned courteously back to Sharon. "Ms. Quinn, you are an artist, are you not?"

Sharon agreed that she was.

"During the year you were married, how many hours a week did you work outside the home?" Nancy queried.

"I taught three one-hour art classes a week," Sharon said.

"Here in town?"

"That's right."

"And Captain Calavicci. Where is he employed?"

Al started to rise. "Sharon, don't you dare—" he began, his stern voice at odds with the sudden alarm in his eyes. He was obviously worried that she was going to blow the lid off of his secret project.

Sharon knew that wasn't necessary. "He's assigned to a naval airfield in the desert," she said.

Al slumped back in his chair, clearly relieved. Sharon winked coyly at him, but the stupid man didn't seem to notice. He was busy with Chester again.

Goldman stared at her as if she was insane. "A naval base in the middle of the desert?"

"Yeah!" To everyone's surprise and the displeasure of all but Sharon, the reply came from Al. "See, the funny thing about planes is… all they need is air and a flat place to land! _No water required_!"

The judge glared at him, obviously not appreciating the subtle implication that he was an idiot. "Captain…" he growled. "_Wait for your turn to speak!_" He exhaled in a huff. "Get on with it, Ms. Busby," he sighed.

Nancy smiled pleasantly. "How far out in the desert?" she asked.

"Al could do it in an hour and a half," Sharon said, trying to catch his eye in order to remind him of their wild rides in the desert. It didn't work.

"One way?"

"That's right."

"And how many hours a week would you say that Captain Calavicci worked?" Nancy asked. Sharon looked at her helplessly Nancy went back to the plaintiff's table and picked up a pencil and a pat of paper, which she handed to Sharon. "Take your time," she said.

Sharon thought about it, working through the math. Up before dawn, home long after dark, a three hour commute… "I don't know," she said. "Probably sixty-five hours."

Al snorted a little. So it was more.

"All right," Nancy said. "Sixty five… six days a week?"

"Usually," Sharon said.

"So he was out of the house more than eighty hours a week!"

"At least," Sharon agreed.

"Then you were responsible for the majority of Chester's care," Nancy said.

Sharon shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I…"

"Ms. Quinn, do you believe Captain Calavicci has at times shown irresponsible behavior where Chester is concerned? Nancy queried.

"Well, yes," Sharon allowed.

"Could you give me an example?"

"He takes him on that bike," she said.

"Could you explain that?"

"Al rides a motorcycle," Sharon said. "He takes Chester out on the bike with him. Just zips him into the front of his jacket and rides."

"And that worries you."

"_Yes_!" she cried. "Al's already fallen once on that stupid bike! Chester hasn't even got a helmet, and even if he did he wouldn't stand a chance if Al rolled over on top of him or something! They could both be killed!"

Nancy frowned. "Why is a man of Captain Calavicci's age riding a motorcycle?" she asked.

"Objection!" Al's lawyer cried. "Captain Calavicci is a fit and healthy man who is perfectly capable—"

"I only want to point out—"

"Your honor, please—"

"—that Captain Calavicci—"

"Order!" Goldman cried. "Order! This court will disperse for a two-hour recess! Counsel will _calm down_!" He brought down his gavel, and then Al and Sharon had to scramble to their feet as he rose and marched from the room.

The door to the chambers slammed, and the bailiff began to tidy the courtroom. There was a silence. Al was clutching Chester against his shoulder. The dog couldn't have looked happier. His master, however, had all the amicable aura of a thundercloud. He set the terrier on the table and reached under his chair for a canvas tote bag. From it he took the dog's dish and a bottle of water with which to fill it. Chester drank eagerly, and Al stroked his back, still resolutely avoiding Sharon's gaze.

"Buy you lunch," Nancy offered, gathering her brief.

"Hang on," Sharon murmured. She came up behind Al. "Hey, sailor," she began. "Long time, no see."

"Why are you doing this?" Al asked softly, keeping his eyes fixed on the dog as he stroked him mechanically.

"Doing what?" Sharon asked, genuinely confused.

"This." He gestured at the courtroom.

"Oh! I want custody of Chester, of course," she said blithely. "C'mon, tiger. Admit you're glad to see me!"

The line should have worked, especially when she brushed her hip seductively against his. Instead, he stiffened at the contact. His voice was hard and unyielding. "He's mine," he said. "Chester's mine, and you can't take him. I'm not going to let you take him."

His lawyer stepped forward in instant damage control mode. "Captain Calavicci—"

"Is that a threat, Captain?" Nancy asked eagerly.

Al sighed. "No," he said flatly. "Not at all."

He caught up the dog in one arm and the leash that was lying on the table with the other. Then he left the room. His attorney rolled his eyes and muttered something, then gathered up his papers and followed. Sharon stared at the door through which Al had vanished, confused. Sure, she had cheated on him, but the second the wheels were in motion for divorce, he had cheated right back. Didn't he see how much fun it would be to have a courtroom fling with his ex-wife? He was taking it so _seriously_, as if it actually mattered which one of them wound up with the dog!

Nancy put a companionable hand on her shoulder. "We've got a great case!" she sang. "He's obviously volatile, and his idiot attorney's acting like your ex's wellbeing is more important than Chester's!"

"Isn't it?" Sharon asked, bewildered. After all, Al was a person and Chester was only a dog.

"In a custody hearing? Of course not!" Nancy cried. "If Chester was a kid the judge would have to look at just what's best for him, and if either parent—that's you and Al in this case—tried to look needy they'd come out selfish and manipulative. Face it, honey: we can't lose! You'll be spending the night with a ball of fuzz and love!"

Sharon grinned. "That's great, Nance. That's really great!"

Secretly, though, she reflected that unless she got a whole different kind of love tonight, she wouldn't count the day a success—no matter what happened in court.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

They re-adjourned and Nancy had Sharon retell such incidents as the Christmas Eve brandy mishap. The lawyer made it out to be Al's fault, both for cooking with liquor and for suggesting the living room picnic. Then she made a couple of points about Al's general immaturity and dodging of household responsibilities, and after that it was time for Gavin Prendergast to take his turn.

He played up Al's financial contribution to the household. Every time Sharon blanked on a detail he would look pointedly at Goldman as if to say, _See? She doesn't even know what he did for her_! After that there were a few questions about Al's general attitude towards the dog and her own initial indifference. Finally she was allowed to sit down, and Nancy called Al forward.

There was a moment of chaos when Nancy appealed to the judge not to allow Chester on the stand. Prendergast wanted to put him on a lease and tether him to the table. Al maintained that he would sit where he was told and didn't need to be restrained.

"I'll hold him," Sharon volunteered, trying to solve the problem.

"No!" Al snapped.

"That's a lovely idea!" Nancy gushed. "After all, Chester hasn't seen his mommy for almost three months! He must miss her horribly!"

"She can't—" Al fell silent at a meaningful look from his attorney. Nancy took Chester from his arms and gave him to Sharon. Al watched, his face a mask of indifference. Then suddenly he grinned and shrugged.

"All righty!" he said, bouncing onto the stand. "Let's get on with it! I got a hot date at eight."

He sized Nancy up.

"Of course, gorgeous, if you're free I can always stand her up," he teased.

Nancy gave him a cold smile. "Captain Calavicci, your attorney has claimed that Chester is like a son to you. Is that true?"

"No," Al said. "I don't need to nag him to clean up his room, and he _never_ gives the teacher trouble."

Sharon giggled, and Chester looked up at her in puzzlement.

"However," Nancy said, as if he had replied in the affirmative; "haven't you told Ms. Quinn on several occasions that you are, and I quote 'not his daddy'?"

Al looked at her. "He's a dog," he said. "I can't be his daddy. Come to that, I don't see how Sharon can be his mommy, either. She's a lot of things I don't like, your honor, but she ain't a dog!"

Sharon flushed a little in pleasure. Al's compliments, even the flippant ones, were too delightful to pass up.

Nancy's grilling grew more intense, but Al kept laughing her off. The more serious she got, the more facetious he became. Sharon wondered what had brought about the sudden change. Even when his own attorney took over, Al kept on with the Groucho Marx routine. There was something not quite right about his voice… and finally Sharon realized what it was. He was tipsy. He had been drinking.

She didn't know whether Goodman had noticed, but he was clearly getting tired of the clown on the stands. He adjourned for only fifteen minutes before announcing his ruling.

As the two lawyers packed up, Sharon sauntered up to Al and made no secret of her feelings and intentions as she stroked his jaw with her index finger. "Hey, sailor," she murmured. "No hard feelings?"

He looked at her, and suddenly he was deathly pale. "This isn't over," he promised, his voice tightly controlled as if he was reigning in explosive anger. "I'll appeal. I'll do whatever I have to, but this isn't over."

Before she could even react, he was gone.

Sharon stood there, numb with confusion and disillusionment, completely oblivious to the Yorkshire terrier watching her from the plaintiff's table. Didn't he find her attractive anymore? Desirable? Wasn't she the same woman he'd married? The same one he'd called "gorgeous"? What had changed? _She_ wanted _ him._ Why didn't he want her now?


	48. Chapter FortySeven

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Jean Talarski was the Project gossip. Everyone knew that. She had her finger on the pulse of Starbright and knew everything there was to know about its personnel. This wasn't necessarily a bad thing. She was the assistant manager in Human Resources, and her love of tittle-tattle kept her well abreast of the vibe of the people. If you had a problem, nine times out of ten Jean knew about it before your secretary did.

Usually Al hated the idea that someone was out there, waiting to pounce like a predator on the slightest intimation of scandal. Today, however, when she approached him as he chased his salad around his plate with a fork, all he saw were her seductive curves and her sympathetic smile.

"Hey, stranger," she said, sliding into the plastic cafeteria chair across from him. "You look like you could use a friend."

Al looked up from the meal he knew he should, but definitely didn't want to, eat. "And you look like you just stepped off the cover of _Vogue_."

He had a healthy flirting relationship with most of the women on the Project. It was part of Calavicci's keep-the-staff-happy strategy. Jean's smile broadened and she reached across the table to pat his limp left hand. "How're things with the ex?"

Al snorted a little and took a mouthful of his… _medicated_ coffee. He had discovered that, by keeping his consumption constant but moderate, he didn't need to sink into black moods without warning. Unfortunately, there were some subjects that brought their melancholy regardless. Sharon had had Chester for three days now. Calavicci had had three very rough nights.

He took courage from the heat of the vodka caressing his stomach, and turned on the charm in the form of a wry grin. "Which one?" he asked.

Jean shrugged. "Whichever one looks most like me," she said.

Al laughed. "Baby, if any of them had looked anything like you, they wouldn't be an ex."

Jean giggled, and under the table he could feel her left ankle crooking around his right. "I heard about the dog," she said. "That's too bad."

He reached for his coffee again and affected indifference. "Yeah, well, my attorney's not going to let her get away with it. He's appealing the decision. We'll it reheard."

"I'm glad," Jean said. "It would be a good idea if we rethought the rules about pets on the premises."

Al frowned. He had heard that line before. Something about pets and the rules… where had he heard that before?

"You don't think it's a good idea?" Jean said in mild surprise.

"Oh… no, it's a great idea…" Al said. He was in a bit of a stupor, and all he could really focus on was the way her bosom rose and fell beneath her knotted blouse.

"You see, my vision for Starbright is a sanctuary. Just because we have a top-secret location and all the security precautions that come with the nature of our work doesn't mean this place should have the ambience of a bomb shelter." She leaned forward and plucked a breadstick from his plate, toying provocatively with it while she spoke. "For example, did you know that we have crew quarters adequate to accommodate a staff twice as large as the one we have now, but only twenty-three percent of our personnel are permanent residents?"

She was waiting for a response.

"Uh… no…" Al said. "No, I didn't realize that."

She smiled. "You see? No one does! Aside from the marines and their families, almost no one is taking advantage of our great facilities! Doctor Eleese, Doctor Thorgard, Doctor Gushman, a handful of the others, couple of the folks from Maintenance, most of us in H.R., and that's just about it! And you, of course. I was so glad to hear you'd moved in permanently. It's exactly the kind of thing we need to encourage."

She had slipped her foot out of its pump and was running it along his calf. Al was having more trouble than ever paying attention to what she was saying, but she was obviously expecting some kind of comment.

"You hafta admit," he said; "the quarters aren't exactly spacious."

"Oh, I know that," Jean allowed. "I'm not talking about the people with kids—though we could do some shuffling with the above-ground lodgings if anyone was interested. But seventy percent of our staff is single."

"Makes it hard to meet people," Al pointed out.

Jean's smile grew almost gleeful. "Does it?" she asked, leaning closer.

"So we are," Al said, not really meaning to speak aloud.

"Are?" Jean said.

"On the same wavelength…"

She smiled and leaned right over the table to brush her lips against his cheekbone. "Oh, I think we are," she murmured.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

In his quarters, they shared a glass of wine—the last of the Chianti Al had brought from the trailer. Wine was too expensive to restock, when whiskey got the job done just as quickly. Then they settled into the serious business of the evening. As she removed his shirt, Jean's eyes boggled at the sight of his scars, but he dragged her into a deep, hungry kiss that made her forget it. Just when he started to forget… just when he thought he could move on…

At least Jean was ready to move on. She couldn't have cared less about the marks on his body. She was only interested in the body itself. They fell asleep in each other's arms just before midnight, thoroughly satiated.

Al awoke drenched in sweat and breathing heavily, gasping against broken ribs. Jean was slumbering next to him, blissfully unaware of the panic settling on is heart. He tried to calm down, but it wasn't working. It just wasn't working! The phantom pain made even the smallest movement agony. It hurt! Oh, God, stop! "_STOP_!"

"Mmh… stop what…" Jean murmured.

Al groped out into the darkness, frantic and desperate to do anything to stop the pain and bury the memories. His flailing hand lighted on the smooth skin of her shoulder, and he grabbed much harder than he meant to. She sat up with a gasp, and her forehead cracked against his. She fell back on the pillows, and he reeled away, his right arm twisting beneath his back as he tried to keep from falling out of the bed. A hoarse cry at the unexpected attack tore itself from his throat, and tears began to stream down his cheeks. It was a physiological response to the blow to the head, not a psychological response to the dream. His psychological inclination was to curl into a ball to protect what he could of his vitals.

Then all of a sudden deft fingers were stroking his chest, drawing him back towards the middle of the bed. She was kissing him again, firmly and passionately. He gave in, and allowed himself to be completely absorbed in the pleasure.

Where there was pleasure, there could not be Vietnam.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM

As the weeks wore on, his relationship with Jean became the constant around which Al's life revolved. Since they were both employed on the Project they had endless opportunities to see one another. Like two college students making excuses to flirt with one another during tutorials, they found reasons to spend time together during the workday.

The new alliance between Human Resources and Administration filtered down through the ranks of the Project as Al implemented more and more of Jean's suggestions. A rec room was set up on the residential level. Evening activities were planned. The mess hall on Sub-Level Five had its menus overhauled. That last was a move Al found long overdue. While nobody expected the quality of free food to be anything stellar, the concept of smaller batches went a long way to improving matters. As his meals began to take on a slightly less rubbery consistency, Al found himself eating with more relish. Everyone else seemed to appreciate the change, too, with the possible exception of Prysock, who valued the bottom line over everything.

The nightly question of "your place or mine" became a game. Certain activities were reserved for Al's more spacious quarters. There were others that the unusual layout of Jean's room (which was next to the elevator shaft) facilitated. Most importantly, she never asked any questions about scars, nightmares or Vietnam.

A glass full of whiskey on the rocks was the only thing better than making love with Jean.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM

At last the day came for Al's appeal of the court decision leaving Chester in Sharon's care to be heard. He rode into the city early, and conferred with Gavin, who had several excellent strategies. Entering the courtroom was hard. Sharon was already there, sitting where Al had last time. In her lap was his little guy. He looked as perky and as happy as ever, for which Al had to be thankful. It was awful seeing him and being unable to hold him. He had tried to bury the pain of the separation, but seeing Chester again reminded Al how much he missed him.

It was a different judge, and this time Al was careful not to antagonize him. Gavin bobbed and weaved with Sharon's lawyer, but Al was too distracted by the proximity of his dog to pay much attention. He was right there, not ten feet away…

Once or twice he turned to look at Chester only to find Sharon watching him with what seemed to be unbridled avarice. He found that more than a little disconcerting, to say nothing of confusing.

At last came the awful moment of the verdict. Al held his breath, dimly aware that his grip on the arm of his chair was becoming almost painful.

"Having weighed the case carefully," the judge pronounced; "I find both parties to be capable of giving the… er… Chester the care and attention that he needs. Both seem financially able to support him. Neither are involved in lifestyles or activities that would endanger him. Therefore, as he was purchased—er, obtained—by Captain Calavicci prior to the marriage to Ms. Quinn, I see no more just route than to grant custody to the captain. He shall take charge of the… dog… immediately. Case dismissed."

Al had to stop himself from flying across the room to snatch Chester from that woman's clutches. He forced himself to rise with dignity and cross the courtroom.

"I'm sorry to do this, Sharon," he said, though that was a lie. He wanted Chester and she never would have stopped him. He wasn't sorry at all that she'd lost.

"Oh, that's okay," she said sweetly, rising and easing the terrier into his arms. Al felt the warm weight settle against his chest for a moment, until Chester realized who was holding him. His tail began to wag furiously, and he sprung up so that his forepaws rested on Al's shoulder. He immediately started lapping at his master's neck. The familiar sensation sent up a pang of nostalgia and affection that almost brought Al to tears. He had to fight for his dignity. He curled his lip a little. "No hard feelings?" he sneered, hiding behind sarcasm.

"None at all!" Sharon said blithely, slipping her arm into his. "Why don't I buy you a coffee and we can compare notes on the single life?"

She wanted to compare notes on the single life? Al couldn't quite believe that he was hearing that. After _he'd_ lost custody it had been all he could manage to get out of the room without breaking anything.

"I'd rather not," he said. "I have to get this guy back home, _where he belongs_."

"At least show me to my vehicle?" Sharon asked, rubbing her hip against his. "I just thought maybe we could… you know… get reacquainted."

Al's eyes went wide with enlightenment. She wanted to…

He wondered if _he_ wanted to. After all, this was the woman who had entertained her lover right under his damned nose. On the other hand, she was good at heart. She'd always been nice to Stevie (Stevie! He'd be so glad to see Chester again!). What it came down to in the end was that Al was so happy to have his dog back that he didn't mind sharing that happiness. He let her lead him to her van, where they got in a good hour of passion while Chester stood watch in the driver's seat, innocently oblivious to the antics going on behind him.

When at last they were dressing, Sharon sighed in contentment.

"Thanks," she said. "You're fantastic, you know that?"

Al laughed. "Aren't you even a little mad that you lost?"

She shrugged. "You win some, you lose some. Besides… I hit the jackpot."

She kissed him lasciviously. Al indulged in one last squeeze of her curvaceous waist. Then he tucked in his shirt and opened the sliding side door. "Chester!" he said, whistling sharply. The jingle of the terrier's tags as he sprung off the front seat to obey the summons eased an old ache in Al's heart.

"I guess this is goodbye," Al told Sharon, who was sliding on her stockings again.

"Oh, I wouldn't be too sure, sailor," Sharon said, winking lustily. "After all, we're both available."

Al laughed. She had to be kidding!

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

With the return of his beloved dog, Al's life was just about as perfect as it was likely to get. The relationship with Jean petered out—so abruptly that Al almost wondered if she'd had an ulterior motive for getting it on in the first place—and he began to look elsewhere around the project. There was a wealth of female company, and he had to be one of the more eligible bachelors around. He was busy with his work, too. There were funding dinners in November, and he would be flying out to New York for those. At least he didn't need to defend himself. All he would be there to do was schmooze.

It was in the second week of October that the external line rang. "Calavicci," he said, expecting Washington.

"Captain!" a friendly and vaguely familiar voice said. "Hello. How are you?"

"Fine…" Al allowed warily. "Who is this?"

"Doctor Untreigner from Balboa Naval Hospital."

Al wracked his brains for the name. Apparently he did so a little too long, because the man continued.

"You had agreed to have an appointment with me," he said. "I'm one of the staff psychiatrists."

Oh. Damn it to hell, he'd forgot about the shrink. "Oh, right," Al said. "How did you get this number?"

"I called a friend of mine at the Department of Defense. Your residential line doesn't seem to work."

"Oh, no… no, it wouldn't. Since the divorce—"

"Divorce? I'm sorry to hear that."

To give the man credit, he actually _did_ sound sorry.

"Yeah, well, so is my bank account," Al said wryly. "You win some, you lose some."

"Indeed. I've set up an appointment for you next week. Thursday afternoon. Will you be able to make it?"

"Thursday, sure. Sure. What time?"

"Three o'clock."

"Yeah, fine…" Al glanced at the report he had been laboring over, still trying to make his mind shift gears from one subject to the other.

"Good. I look forward to it."

Sure. All shrinks did. They loved to snack on your brain.

"Me too," Al lied.


	49. Chapter FortyEight

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Al sat on the overstuffed leather armchair, unable to relax. He glanced at the sofa, and then turned away with a flush of shame. He remembered that goddamn sofa. He had been deep in the throes of a night terror, unable to shake the horror of one of the most debilitating and degrading of countless atrocious torture sessions. He had a dim and humiliating recollection of struggling to remember what the thing was called—as if he was a newly-repatriated wretch who had forgotten simple things like which way to turn a faucet. He didn't want to relive his last session in this room any more than he wanted to re-experience is years in Vietnam. The way things were already going, he would be doing a lot of both before the day was through.

He had left Chester in the care of Doctor Gushman for the day, and he hoped that nothing would go wrong with Starbright's dozens of computers. The programmer was a good guy, but he was a bit absent-minded and very easily distracted. If worst came to worst, Al would be home by midnight, but he hated the thought of the dog doing without anything for so long.

There was a knock at the door.

"He's not here," Al called. "He's out doing something on the ward."

There was a good-natured chuckle from the other side of the door. "It's Doctor Untreigner, Captain." The door opened and the owner of the office came in. Al got to his feet and accepted the proffered hand. "I'm glad to see you again."

"Uh… ditto…" Al said.

"I'm so sorry to hear about the divorce," Untreigner said, sitting down on the sofa. Al settled uneasily back into the armchair, shrugging indifferently.

"It isn't the first one," he said.

"I know," the psychiatrist intoned softly. "That doesn't mean that such things get easier with practice."

"You'd be surprised," Al muttered.

"What was her name?"

Al answered without thinking. "Beth." He heard what he had said and wished he could cut out his traitorous tongue. "Sharon," he corrected hastily. "Her name's Sharon."

"Captain—this is ridiculous. I'm Jack."

"Al," he offered dispassionately.

"Al. Why did you split, if it's not presumptuous of me to ask."

Al shrugged. "I don't care who knows it. She cheated. Took off with a bricklayer. Women: what can you do?"

Jack laughed a little. "I don't know," he said. "My wife is still a mystery to me, and we've been together forty-nine years."

"Tactful," Al sneered.

The psychiatrist regarded him levelly. "You don't strike me as the kind of man to accept tacit pity," he said. "If I danced around the question you would be angry and resentful, wouldn't you?"

Al stared. The shrink was right. For the first time in his experience, the headshrinker actually had some sense of where he was coming from.

Jack smiled. "I thought so. Now, are you interested in telling me more about Sharon, or would you rather we move on to another subject?"

Al shrugged. "You're the expert on the human mind, not me."

"No one knows your mind better than you do, Al," Untreigner said.

"Why do you want me here anyway?" Al asked.

"Well, to be honest, I was concerned about the nightmare you had during your check-up in the spring," Jack admitted.

Al found himself waxing defensive again. "You said that was normal," he said.

"I don't use that word," Untreigner said. "_Normal _doesn't exist. I said I didn't think you were crazy."

Al blinked in mild surprise. The man actually remembered what they had talked about? Six months later? What kind of a psychiatrist was he?

"The nightmares are to be expected," Jack continued. "My concern is how often you experience them. You mentioned they came occasionally, but not occasionally enough. I take that to mean they're something of an inconvenience?"

Waking up screaming and perspiring almost every night? No, not inconvenient at all. Al wasn't going to admit it, though. If he did, the man would only use the confession against him. They were always trying to force you into a box, to corner you so that they could force you to see one of them regularly. Psychiatry was the most self-satiating profession of all. Hell, they were even worse than lawyers!

These cynical and vaguely paranoid thoughts were being undermined by the look of kind concern on the man's face. Al wanted reassurance. He wanted support. He wanted a friend. He had to remind himself fiercely that friends were nothing but trouble. You poured out your heart to somebody, and they let it run all over the floor. As soon as Untreigner found out the truth about the depth of his black thoughts and his medically unsound way of coping with them, of forgetting the misery and the ugliness, he would revile him. Betray him. Al had to be smarter than his own longing for an ally.

"I wouldn't say inconvenient," he told the psychiatrist, keeping his cool. "Just annoying."

"I can see that," Jack said. "Do you know how often you dream?"

"Yes," Al said flatly.

"How often?"

"Most humans spend between two and four hours in deep R.E.M. sleep every night," Al answered.

Jack laughed. "I meant how often do you have nightmares."

"Oh. Well, there's this one where I'm on stage in my underwear…"

"On stage?"

Al shrugged. "I used to be an actor."

Untreigner smiled. "Really? My grandson's trying to make a name for himself on Broadway."

"Good luck to him," Al said. "I'd offer to give him some pointers, but I imagine the theatre scene has changed since my day."

"It's a hard place to make a living," Jack said.

Al laughed. "You're telling me! I'll say this about the Navy: they don't usually let you go hungry."

"Usually?"

Al colored in embarrassment. It was too much of an admission, and not one that he had wanted to make. "Well, some of the slop they serve on those aircraft carriers…" he tried.

He wasn't fooling Untreigner. The shrink nodded almost sadly, then smiled again. "So tell me, how are you finding your new posting?"

"Not all that new anymore," Al said. "Eighteen months."

"I understand it's a position of some responsibility with a government project."

"Top secret, I'm afraid," Al said.

"Of course. I'm more interested in how you are finding the work, not what the work is."

Al laughed. "Now there's an awkward sentence." He sobered again, because Jack was still looking at him with respect and genuine concern. "It's a little stressful sometimes," Al allowed. "And sometimes it's boring as hell. I wouldn't trade it for anything, though. It's… you should see… when things start working…" He gesticulated enormously, but impotently. There was no way that he could communicate the grand scope of it all without betraying more than he should.

"Good! I'm glad," Jack said. "Would you say it's more or less stressful than flying?"

"Spoken like someone who's never flown," Al said. "There's a whole different kind of stress when you're trying to pull together eighteen eggheads so you can send a report off to Congress. It's nothing like the stress of barrelling through the air at mach .75, dodging anti-aircraft missiles and wondering if the next one is going to leave your wife a widow."

"You had been married six years when you were shot down," Jack said, even before Al realized he had alluded to Beth.

"Yeah. First run's the longest," Al muttered.

"Do you want to tell me about her?" queried the psychiatrist. For a moment Al almost forgot that he _was_ a psychiatrist. Then the walls went back up. He couldn't trust. He couldn't let go.

"Sure!" he quipped. "She had dark hair and _great_ legs …" At Jack's expression he stopped. He wasn't fooling him. Al shrugged in defeat. "She liked calla lilies," he said flatly.

Jack hummed a little, nodding. "What about your second wife?"

"The Hungarian?" Al asked, as usual coming up with a blank on the woman's name. "Well… she was Hungarian."

"What kind of flowers did she like?"

Al shrugged again. "I dunno."

"What about music?"

"Huh?"

"What kind of music did she like?"

"Ray Charles. Beth loved Ray Charles…"

"I meant the Hungarian," Jack clarified gently.

"Oh…" Al tried to rout through his brain for that information, but he was coming up blank. "I have no idea," he admitted at last. "What kind of music do Hungarians usually like?"

"I'm not sure," Jack said. "Your third wife. Tell me a little about her."

"Who, Ruthie? She's great," Al told him. "You know, she's the only woman I've ever been with who's a better cook than I am? I mean, she makes a gefilte fish that could _kill_ you! And these little knishes with the apples and the cinnamon… yumola! Of course, her ma and her sisters are pretty good, too, but Ruthie! _Wow_!" It was making his mouth water just thinking about it. Funny how the thought of real food did that to a guy after a few months of cafeteria slops. Maybe he could bum a meal off of her when he was up in New York next month…

"Sounds like quite a woman. Now, my wife can boil an egg if you write out the instructions, but…"

"Sounds like Sharon!" Al chortled. "The woman—great painter, but absolutely the worst housekeeper I've ever had the misfortune to live with!"

"What do you miss about her? Sharon, I mean," Jack asked.

Al considered the question. "Well… she's got these hips…" He mimed them in the air in front of him. "When she's wearing one of her pink baby dolls…"

Untreigner frowned. "How old is she?"

Al chuckled. "She'd kill me for telling," he said. "Forty-four."

"Ah." Untreigner seemed to smile. "Have you got a new lady friend?"

"Oh, seven or eight!" Al said happily. Jack chuckled. "I'm not joking," Al told him. "Lots of lonesome young chemistry whizzes around Starbright."

"Well, that should make for interesting times. Al, I'm curious. How many years did you spend as a prisoner of war?"

"Six," Al said, his good mood deflating like a balloon. "Six godforsaken years."

"Where were you held?"

Al was going to snap back that it was none of his damned business, but Jack was watching him with something like genuine concern in his eyes. His heart ached for a chance to let go, just a little bit. Surely it couldn't hurt to give in to the desire to have someone care, just once…

"I spent nine months at the Hilton," he said. "But I was trouble. Too much trouble for a crowded, central prison. They banished me out to Briarpatch. You heard of it?"

Jack nodded.

"Stinking cesspool," Al said. "I was there… must've been close to a year. Then…"

He shuddered convulsively, studying his shoes. He expected the shrink to prompt him, prod him for more information, but he didn't. Amazingly, Al found himself speaking.

"I was chosen… by one of the V.C. war heroes. I dunno. Maybe they just wanted me out of the way, you know? They took me… to a jungle outpost outside Cham Hoi. I got moved around a lot after that. Even spent some time on the Mekong Delta. We couldn'ta been twenty miles from American troops. Quon used us… as a trap. A company of SEALs…" He shook his head. The memories were trickling back. "One of Charlie's little bitches killed their commander. She… they…"

"I didn't realize that women served with the Viet Cong," Jack said softly, offering him an out.

Al took it. "Oh, sure! You think we've got women's lib? They've had women as soldiers for centuries. They make good soldiers. They make _excellent_ interrogators." His right hand moved unconsciously to his ribs, moving along an old scar, a memento of the march back north.

Jack nodded soberly. "I never would have thought."

"No, 'cause China's so repressive, and Japan is huge on femininity, so you think all Asian countries are like that: men have a place, women have a place. It's not like that in Vietnam. Women are s'posed to be strong. The "long-haired warriors", they call 'em." Al was wrapped up in the culture lesson, actually finding himself swept away by the uniqueness of it. "But some of them are great mothers. There was this one…" His voice trailed off and he grinned sheepishly. "But you don't want to talk about that," he demurred.

"I want to talk about whatever you want to," Jack said.

"Oh, really?"

"Well… it would be nice if we could keep the conversation close to your personal experience, and not discuss basketball," Untreigner allowed.

Al laughed a little. "All right," he said. "What else do you want to know?"

"You were tortured," Jack said.

Al's brows knit together. "So I was tortured," he said harshly. "So what?"

"I wanted to see if you could say it. Some can't," Jack said. "There are some who were incarcerated over there who want to pretend that the whole thing never happened. I'm glad to see you're not one of those."

Shows what he knew. "Doesn't help to lie to yourself," Al said. "Whole world tries to lie to you, and you're going to help it?"

"The world lies to you?"

Al tried to laugh his way out of it. "Sure!" he said. "Do you know, I saw a dog food commercial all about how your pet would love this particular brand. So I picked some up for Chester, and he wouldn't even touch it? Wouldn't eat anything else out of the dish it'd been in, either! I had to buy him a whole new bowl!" It was a lie—no, not a lie, a wisecrack. A story.

Untreigner laughed. "I didn't know you had a dog."

"Yeah, well, I almost didn't," Al growled. "She tried to get custody! Can you believe it? She tried to take my dog!"

"Sharon?"

"That's right! The nerve of the woman! Oh, well. I got him back. He's mine."

"I'm glad to hear that. A dog is the best companion a man can have," Jack said.

"You don't know the half of it," Al whispered. His hands were starting to tremble again. He tucked them into his armpits to hide the shaking. He needed a little nip of whiskey. His flask was resting against his left buttock, but he couldn't very well take it out here. "Look, can I use the head?" he asked abruptly.

"Certainly," Jack said. "Turn left, and it's the third door on your right."

Al nodded gratefully and slipped out of the room. He hastened to the bathroom and took a mouthful of the soothing liquor. Then he washed his face, trying not to look at his reflection. For some reason, old whip-wheals webbing his back now felt raw and fresh. He could almost feel the cloth of his shirt sticking to them, entrapped in the freely flowing blood.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

Jack Untreigner waited. He had wondered how long it would take Calavicci to reach the point where he would need to leave the room. The sheer amount of information that he had been able to gather so far was startling. The captain had made a career of burying his agonies and his miseries. He had them immured behind a concrete dam, but every now and then one would trickle over the top. Jack wondered, not for the first time, whether the wall would hold when the floodwaters rose.

Of course, if Calavicci was lucky, the floodwaters would never rise. Yet Jack didn't kid himself. He wasn't a superstitious man, but he had seen too much of the world to kid himself. Some people had luck, and some didn't. Judging from Calavicci's file he fit into the later category.

The problem, then, was how to help him. It boiled down to one fundamental problem. The man obviously didn't want help. Yes, it was possible to force him into psychotherapy, but that was a very, very bad idea. For one thing, it would destroy his career, the one constant throughout a very turbulent life. More importantly, a man so used to resisting the will of others—a man who had withstood six years of torture and brutal interrogations—would never capitulate or cooperate under such circumstances.

And the one-hour appointment was almost over. Jack had less than six minutes to try to do something to help this wounded soul.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

Al returned to find the psychiatrist behind his desk, digging in the drawers.

"Done with me, Doc?" he asked.

Jack looked up. "No," he said. "Not quite."

"Oh. Okay." Al resumed his seat.

Untreigner came around the desk, a little coil notebook in his hand. "Al," he said; "I know you've heard before that you don't need to cope with the memories of Vietnam by yourself."

Al had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. Damned right he'd heard it before, and it was bullshit.

"I'm here to tell you that that's bullshit," Jack said. Al gawked. "Of course you need to cope with them yourself. No one can deal with them for you. I can't. Your wives and girlfriends can't. The only person who can is Albert Calavicci."

"What if I don't want to?" Al challenged.

"Then that's your choice. But if you do want to, I know you can face them. I know you can deal with them. You're intelligent enough, stubborn enough, and God knows you're brave enough."

Al almost laughed. The hell he was. He wasn't brave. He had lost his courage the second he'd ejected from that damned plane. Valliant Lieutenant Calavicci had died that day over the Highlands. Brave and bold young Bingo was long gone. All that was left was Al, the coward.

"There's no reason for you to talk about them, if talking is too difficult. What I want you to try instead is writing about them. Every night, before you go to bed, take a minute to fill a page in this notebook with a difficult recollection." Jack saw Al's look of sceptical disgust. "Please try it. Every night for a month. Then if you don't see any value in the exercise, go ahead and quit. But try it, Al. Please try it."

Al looked at the kind face of the older man. He couldn't throw the suggestion back at him. The guy was such a misguided optimist, but he was likeable. Al liked him. He didn't want to hurt him.

He took the book and grinned. "Sure, Doc. I'll try it."

Untreigner smiled. "Thank you."

Al shrugged a little and collected his helmet and jacket. They shook hands and he left.

He had planned to throw the notebook away, but somehow he never got around to it. Back at the Project, he stashed it in one of the barren kitchen cupboards, and promptly forgot about it.


	50. Chapter FortyNine

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Sharon entered the apartment and began to strip off her sensible and mind-numbingly boring suit. The jacket landed in the foyer, and she stepped out of the shoes on her way to the kitchen. She poured herself a sherry as she unbuttoned the blouse, and the cream-colored mass of ruffles landed on the floor next to the stove. Off came the brassiere, which settled next to the coffee maker. She wrestled with the pencil skirt as she moved into her living room studio. It was oddly empty without Chester waiting to greet her. She set the sherry on top of the television and peeled off her pantyhose, which she tossed into a corner with an assortment of garments that had accumulated over the week. The panties were the last to go, almost but not quite making it into the bathroom.

She started to run a hot tub, dosing it liberally with bubbles and setting out her razor and other necessities along the side. She lowered the lid of the toilet and sat on top of it, paddling the toes of her left foot in the water. The bathroom was tiny and almost as cramped as the one in the trailer had been, so this maneuver didn't take too much wrangling to execute. She set her drink on the side of the tub and slipped beneath the surface with a pleasured sigh.

One thing she sure didn't miss about her most recent marriage was having to make do with a shower. No matter how you sliced it—or who you shared it with—a shower just wasn't as enjoyable as a long, steamy soak. She lathered up one leg and set about the work of shaving.

Life was good. She was enjoying her work immensely, and the creative juices were flowing. She had turned out four paintings in the last three weeks, and had actually sold two of them! She was pulling in money hand over fist: much faster than she could ever spend it. The van had spent most of last week in the shop getting the shocks repaired, but the nice thing about owning a Volkswagen was that the repairs came cheap. Still, Old Faithful was on its last legs, and in another couple years it would be time to consider a new vehicle. Maybe she could indulge in that dream of the customized Mercedes…

Not yet, she decided. Didn't do to splurge before you gave the dust time to settle. The divorce was scarcely over, after all. This early feeling of affluence would face. It had post-Heinrich. A year after the break-up, she had suddenly found herself having a hard time making ends meet. Daddy had bailed her out.

Daddy… that was the one sore spot. He was getting worse. His agitation over his wife's absence was escalating, and he was loosing more and more of his grasp on reality. He didn't seem to remember Debra or even Clara, and though he often talked about Luke, who had taken to visiting him on Saturdays instead of Sundays, it was always in the terms of a young friend, not a grandson. Once or twice he had mistaken Sharon for her mother, which had hurt in more ways than one.

He was always asking about Al, too, although in that case also he seemed to be confusing his former son-in-law and a pilot he had known during the war. Whoever Captain Calavicci equated too in the old man's mind, however, that person was sorely missed. Pat would reminisce about the days when he used to come and read plays and talk about books. When he was in one of his "moods", he would shout and rant and demand to know where Al had gone. Sharon couldn't explain that Al didn't want to come anymore, even though she understood it perfectly. If she had had any choice, she would never have come either. The visits were too difficult to be borne with anything but grim determination.

Of course, she reflected, it was _possible_, just _possible_, that Al was avoiding the Sunday afternoon visits because she had resumed them. That thought almost made Sharon laugh aloud. Of course he wanted to see her! He had proved that during their last encounter in court. It was just odd that he hadn't called since.

He was probably waiting for her to make the next move, she thought. After all, the game was more fun if you took turns making the advances. She couldn't say why she found this courtroom romance so titillating. Maybe because there was something almost taboo about it.

Nancy was working on the appeal. She seemed to take it almost as seriously as Al was: talking about the dog's emotional trauma and pressing Sharon for information about Al's lodgings at his secret project. Sharon wished she wouldn't bother. All they needed was a slapped-together custody appeal that would drag Al back into court so that they could have a little fun. Sharon had tried to explain this to Nancy, but the lawyer had just looked at her like she was crazy.

"If the judge thinks we're wasting his time, he could just award Chester to Al permanently, and you'd have no recourse!" she had exclaimed. Sharon could see the logic there. If they couldn't appeal, then she wouldn't be able to get Al back into court, and their game would be over. She had only just succeeded in getting what she wanted, and she wasn't ready to give it up yet.

Still, she wished Nancy would hurry up. She was finding the singles bar scene to be less than satisfactory, and her lust for her ex had been rekindled. She just wasn't ready to say goodbye.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

Of all the deadly sins, lust was the one most likely to ruin a man in this life as well as the hereafter, Dan Penvenen reflected, sitting down in a corner of the mess hall on Sub-Level Five. At the counter from which he had just come with his black tea and dry whole-wheat toast stood Calavicci, flirting shamelessly with the girl behind the counter. Penvenen wondered if she, too, was one of his conquests. He was getting altogether too familiar with the staff, and the worst part was that there was nothing that could be done about it.

Had Starbright been an entry-level project, there might have been recourse to higher authorities. These women, however, were not naïve young interns eager to make a name for themselves at whatever cost. They were highly educated and skilled professionals: respected scientists, expert technicians, and graduate-school-trained archivists. Even the blonde serving up artery-clogging slops for the uniformed administrator was a college graduate. If memory served (and Dan was well aware it always did), she had a degree in history and another in drama. She was certainly putting on a good act right now. Surely there was nothing about Calavicci that made him attractive enough to warrant such extravagant attention.

Personally, Dan found him loathsome. A little toad of a man with a bad habit of wandering the corridors drunk at all hours of the night. The closer he watched the lecherous captain, the less he liked him. From flaunting the rules regarding pets to throwing all vestiges of military deportment to the wind, Calavicci was anything but a model administrator.

The problem was that ninety-six percent of the staff loved him. There were a few, no-nonsense types like Doctor Eleese and dignified servicemen like Colonel Smythe, who would have been happy with a more professional leader, but most of the people employed at Starbright had been sucked in by Calavicci's buoyant charisma. He was very good for morale. As long as he continued to produce results, the Committee wouldn't even consider removing him.

Dan watched as Calavicci slid into a booth where three of the girls from the statistics labs were breaking their fast. It wasn't long before three soprano giggles and Calavicci's deep, throaty laugh were dominating the white noise of the room. Dan frowned and focussed on his tea.

Promiscuity was a weakness. Calavicci had allowed Jean Talarski, the wanton assistant manager of Human Resources, to lead him around by the nose for the better part of a month. He had taken up every one of her harebrained suggestions and implemented them with speed and efficiency that Dan would have envied under different circumstances. At it was, the idea that a man could be turned into a puppet by a woman who did no more than crook her finger and wiggle her hip nauseated him.

It was evidence, however, of just how easy it would be to infiltrate Calavicci's inner circle. Dan was fairly certain that Ms. Talarski had learned some illuminating things about the captain during her weeks as his mistress. Given her propensity for gossip, it wouldn't be hard to debrief her.

And perhaps Calavicci's next fling would be with a woman of Dan's choosing.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

He couldn't believe it. He just couldn't believe it. The nerve of that woman.

With clumsy hands, Al poured himself a scotch, staring at the summons that had just arrived. He wanted to call Prendergast right now, but it was ten at night. Damn the mail room and its twelve-hour delay.

She couldn't have him! She couldn't take him! Why was she doing this?

"Chester!" Al called thickly. He was going to get well and truly drunk tonight. Tomorrow he would have to try to figure out a way to keep his little guy, but tonight… tonight…

The terrier came trotting into the kitchen, panting eagerly and wagging his tail. Al fell to his knees, bottle in one hand and glass in the other. Both landed on the floor as he reached out for the dog, gathering Chester to him and lifting him so that their noses were level.

"Hey, buddy…" Al mumbled. "She's tryin' to get you back. We're not gonna let her do it, are we? She can't. She just can't."

In his heart, though, he knew she _could_. His experiences with divorce had taught him one thing, and that was that women had all the power in family court. Every damned one of them, even sweet little Ruthie who had proclaimed she didn't want _anything_, had come out the better for the split. If Sharon wanted the dog bad enough, there was nothing Calavicci could do to stop her. It was a lost cause. Al knew he couldn't win.

Since when had that ever stopped him? He'd never won a fight in his life, unless you counted the golden gloves regional championship bout back in the days when the woolly mammoth roamed the plains. He'd never won any struggle really worth winning. All he'd ever managed to do was stay alive, but still he had kept fighting. And he would fight now. If it killed him he would fight, but he knew in the end he'd lose. That was why he needed help.

With his left hand he hugged Chester against his breastbone.

With his right, he raised the bottle to his lips.


	51. Chapter Fifty

CHAPTER FIFTY

Like a kid showing up for a blind date, Al paced the hallway outside of her apartment for a good ten minutes before he composed himself enough to rap on the door. It wasn't that he was nervous. It was only that he just couldn't face her with anything but a glowing smile on his face. The last thing you wanted from an ex-wife was pity.

A smile was hard to find. He'd lost Chester again, though his attorney was looking for reasons for another appeal. Al wondered how long this could go on. Sooner or later a judge was bound to realize what a waste of the justice system it was to have this terrier bouncing back and forth like a far-too-wanted child. Al hoped with all his heart that when that day came, Chester would be sitting on his lap, but he didn't hold out much hope.

It was hard to hold out hope of anything when you were having more and more trouble sleeping. The nightmares kept coming and they were getting worse. Four days ago he'd awakened with every nerve on fire after reliving a vicious session of the torture known in some parts of the world as _bastinado_, or "_fangala_", or, as Charlie's eloquent little interrogator had put it, "beat feet; _hard_". Gina, the leggy redhead from Typesetting, had awakened, roused by his panicked gasps and muffled moans of torment. Thinking he was in the mood for Act Two of their little drama, she had wrapped her hands around his waist. The pressure against his spine had been almost akin to hellfire, and he had writhed right out of her grasp, off the bed, and halfway across the bedroom floor before he had regained enough control to immobilize his limbs. It had taken a whole lot of sweet talk to smooth that one over in the morning.

Having flown out to New York the following day, Al really had no idea whether she was spreading that story around the Project or not. He prayed that she wasn't. He couldn't fathom the depths of humiliation that the mere thought that everyone might find out about his nightmares sent him into.

At least here, when he picked up a girl he wasn't likely ever to see her again. That helped him relax a little. Ironically, the less he worried about having a dream, the less likely he was to do so. Last night, aside from the one where he was bound in the shape of a human pretzel and falling through endless emptiness, he had escaped the night terrors.

Today was a day off between banquets, and so Al had been able to trade in the dress blues and fruit salad for a zoot suit and overcoat. He had hopped in the rental car that he had paid for out of his surplus _per diem_, and sped down the turnpike to Jersey. He had a bottle of Chianti in one hand, and a box of caramels in the other, and he was going to spend the morning with an old friend. She had a meeting at two, but five hours was more than ample to do a little… _catching up_.

He took a deep breath and knocked. There was some shuffling from within, and the door opened. Chocolate-colored eyes sparkled and the pretty face framed by dark hair broke into a gratified smile.

"Ruthie!" Al said suavely. "How you been, beautiful?"

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

At a quarter after one Al was out on the street, roaming free with an unopened bottle of Chianti on the seat next to him. When Ruthie had told him she wasn't allowed to have it, he had gawked.

"You're _pregnant_?" he had exclaimed. He hadn't even realized she was seeing anyone.

She'd laughed. "No! No. I'm not supposed to have red wine with the new meds."

His ex-wife had bipolar affective disorder, and had been put on an antidepressant days before they had decided on divorce. As far as Al was concerned, her condition hadn't played into the decision at all. It had been a clear-cut case of "you go your way, I'll go mine": Ruthie wanted to return to Jersey City and go back to work as an editor, and Al had wanted to move to Arizona and take on Starbright. The divorce was supposed to have made them both happier.

At least Ruthie seemed happier. That was something to be grateful for. She was a good kid and she deserved a happy life, unlike certain naval officers. Al had forgotten how much he wanted Ruthie to be happy. He'd forgotten what a wonderful person she was. Whatever the female version of the word _mensch_ was, that was his Ruthie.

Only she wasn't his Ruthie now, any more than Sharon was his Sharon or Chester his dog.

Al sighed and pulled over into one of the angled parking stalls. Without realizing it, he had found his way into the downtown core. He scrubbed his forehead with thumb and finger. He didn't care what the courts said: Chester was his dog. He had to get him back. He just had to. Even if it was only for six weeks until Sharon wrangled another custody hearing.

Part of him knew it was stupid to fight like this over the dog, but there was another part, some fragment of what was left of his heart, that needed that little terrier more than he had needed anything or anybody in a long time. Well, anything or anybody attainable.

He climbed out of the rental and locked it, then started up the street. There had to be a bar or something around here, somewhere he could sit in peace and let his dinner settle. Ruthie—God bless her!—had cooked up his favorite for the noon meal: her very special gefilte fish with all the trimmings. How she'd managed to get food on the table between listening to the story of his life and making fond and tender love in the sunny bedroom Al didn't know. The woman was a miracle worker.

She had wanted to know all about Stevie and his struggle with leukemia. Al had been only too glad to oblige. For one thing, the lady deserved to know why her two-hundred-dollar cheques had suddenly stopped. Also, though, that story had a happy ending. It was just about the only story Al had that you could say that about.

In the glove box of the car was a present Ruthie had sent for Stevie. It was a copy of Green Eggs and Ham that she had purchased for one of her numerous nieces or nephews. Al had tried to protest, but Ruthie had talked him into it. Now he wondered whether she wasn't right. What if he could teach Stevie to read? He'd never read _well_, of course: not Crime and Punishment or The Scientific Journal, but if he could even learn, someday, to read at a third or fourth grade level…

Almost without realizing it, his hands found the door of a dark little pub wedged between two boutiques. Al moved into the gloom and found his way to the counter, where he took a seat in the far corner. He ordered a scotch and water, and went about constructing his castle in the air.

If Stevie could learn how to read a little, just enough to fill out a job application form and find a number in the telephone book, then who was to say the kid couldn't grow up to have a normal life? Al wanted so desperately to give Stevie a future. The kind of future he'd been unable to give Trudy.

"Your first major failure, Calavicci," he muttered, knocking back the drink and signaling for another. Poor little Trudy. She'd counted on him. Depended on him. Damn it to hell, he was her big brother! He should have looked after her! Should've helped her! Not left her to die, alone and unwanted, neglected, frightened…

He could see it so clearly, though whenever he pictured her death she was always the little girl he remembered, five years old, the way he had last seen her. He could see orderlies in clinical white, going about their business on a shabby and overcrowded ward in an insane asylum, not caring that she was dying, not pausing to look at her, his dear little baby sister…

When he thought of her, too, he thought of himself in 'fifty-three. Living in a garret room in Greenwich Village, on the stage in the evenings, out with girls every night, free and having the time of his life. Sure, he couldn't really feed himself, let alone anyone else, but he should have gone for her, should have saved her….

He ordered another scotch. Then another.

At last, drunk enough that he couldn't feel the pain anymore but still sober enough to walk, he stumbled, blinking, into the sunlight and wandered up the street. He smoothed his hair and tried to saunter, blissfully unaware of the disapproving glances he garnered from his fellow pedestrians. He was Albert Calavicci, and the one thing he had left was his sex appeal!

He smiled at a petite brunette in a miniskirt, and indulged in a wolf-whistle as a couple of university students passed him, backpacks riding low over soft round buttocks. The sunshine warmed his skin and reminded him that there was goodness in the world, even if it wasn't really meant for the likes of him.

An older couple passed, and Al's heart almost stopped. They had a Yorkie on a leash between them… a Yorkie that could've been Chester's brother. Al looked wistfully after them. He wished he had his little guy. He wanted Chester back.

He leaned back against a display window and rubbed his chin unhappily. He dug a cigar out of his pocket and chomped off the tip. As he rooted around for his lighter, he turned to see whose premises he had been using as a crutch, and a wicked smile spread across his face. It was a tattoo parlor.

Some rational corner of his mind told him that the idea was one of those ones that seemed much better when you were drunk, but he didn't heed it. A little tangible pain, pain for a purpose, was just what he needed. He put the cigar back where it had come from and opened the door.

The front shop was small, sporting trays of body jewelry and charts of suggested designs. A blackboard was hung over the beaded curtain leading to the back. In neon chalk, it proclaimed: _Your artists today are Lance and Candy._ _A_ skinny girl wearing a black leather minidress and fishnet tights was seated on a stool behind the cash register, ogling at the liner notes of a King Thunder record. Her hair was pink and cropped close to her head. She had a large silver ring running through her left nostril. As Al entered she looked up.

"Your kid ain't here, mister," she said boredly. "We only got the one customer right now, and she's way over twenty-one."

Al shook his head. "I'm not looking for anyone," he said. "I want a tattoo."

"Oh, yeah?" the girl asked skeptically. "So what, 'Mother' or something?"

"I hadn't given it much thought, but that's an absolutely not," Al told her. "I was thinking maybe a dog."

"A _dog_?"

"You're a great salesman, you know that?" Al asked.

"Do I care? You can't get a tattoo right now, anyways," the girl said, turning back to her liner notes. "We only got the one room, and there's somebody in there getting done."

Al pointed at the chalkboard. "You've got two people on duty," he said mildly.

"Yeah," the girl allowed. "Maybe Candy could do you, but we only got the one room, and the lady who's getting done needs her privacy."

From behind the curtain, a twanging voice let out; "I don't mind! I'll share a room—so long as he's cute!"

The girl with the pink hair looked Al up and down. "I dunno!" she shouted back. "Candy! Get out here and tell me if you think this guy's cute!"

The curtain rustled, and a bionic woman came into the front store. She was about thirty, and covered with so much metal that she had to be endangered by any kind of proximity to magnets. She looked Al up and down, and stepped forward to brush one black-lacquered fingernail over his lapel. "Hey, there," she said. "I'm Candy. You looking to get something pierced?"

"A tattoo, actually," Al said.

"Mmh. Well, we'll have to see some I.D. You know, to make sure you're old enough."

A tiny, sober voice told Al to run. The drunken voice that wanted to do something fun, youthful and irresponsible was much stronger. He dug out his wallet and gave her his driver's license.

"Albert Calveck—Calavkk…"

"Calavicci," Al said.

"Ooh!" Candy cooed. "_Mambo Italiano!_" She turned to shout over her shoulder. "He's cute, baby! He's cute!"

"Bring him on in!" the other female voice said.

Candy grinned. "Right this way. You said you were thinking a dog. Bulldog? Mastiff? You look like the Rottweiler type to me."

"Yorkshire terrier, actually," Al said, following her into a neat white room with two examining tables. A tray of instruments and cast-off sterile packaging stood between them, and a tall, bony man was bending over the other customer. Then Al got a good look at the other customer, and for a minute he couldn't focus on anything else.

She must've been "way over twenty-one", but only from the perspective of a sixteen-year-old clerk. Al wouldn't have guessed she was much over twenty-three. She was a blonde with a fine nose and striking blue eyes, and her hair poured like liquid gold over the table she was lying on. She had long, slender, athletic legs, and the most sculpted abdomen Al had seen in a long time. She was wearing a hot pink tummy-tickler and neon orange ankle socks… _and nothing else_. A white napkin covered her right hip and the super-private areas of her anatomy, but her left hip was bared, and the tattoo—an Art Deco rose in vivid blue—was being applied to the crest of her pelvis.

She was watching him with a look of cynical amusement, and Al realized how unashamedly he was gawking. "Yum_ola_!" he exclaimed. "They didn't tell me they had Miss Universe back here."

The girl blushed delightfully. "You're right, Candy," she said. "He's cute. I guess we can keep him."

"So, where do you want this Yorkshire terrier?" Candy asked as Al winked at the girl on the table. God, she was gorgeous… she was a little piece of perfection, right here in Jersey City. "Hey, earth to Albert Calavicci. Come in, Calavicci!"

The other tattoo artist turned away from his subject. "Albert Calavicci?" he echoed. He was maybe four years younger than his colleague, and far less decorated. "You're Albert Calavicci?"

"That's me," Al said warily. "Call me Al."

"Al Calavicci…" Venus de Jersey said, rolling the name over her tongue in a way that made Al want to take her in his arms and kiss her. "You're… a movie star, right? I mean, you were in… oh…" She snapped her fingers. "The Werewolf of Washington! You were in The Werewolf of Washingon!"

Al laughed. "I don't think so," he said.

"He's an astronaut," Lance exclaimed. At least, Al assumed he was Lance. Ironic name for a tattoo artist… "He was on the last Apollo mission. You're a national hero!"

Al shrugged uncomfortably. "It's a living," he demurred.

Candy's eyes went wide. "The Silent Warrior of Cham Hoi!" she exclaimed. "I knew I'd seen your name somewhere before! Hang on!"

She ran from the room. Al looked after her, for a moment stricken by a pang of anxiety and anticipation. He couldn't figure out why, though, so he turned back towards the vision of loveliness draped over the table.

"You're an astronaut?" she said, clearly impressed. The old lines were still the best lines.

Al nodded. "You betcha. First man to throw a baseball on the moon."

She giggled and writhed a little. She wasn't wearing a brassiere under that shirt, either… "That's amazing!" she said.

"Amazing!" Lance agreed, eyeing Al with respect.

Candy came back into the room. "You have to sign it for me!" she gushed. "You're a champion of the American way of life! You're a crusader in the war against communism! You're—you're—" She gestured helplessly and thrust a book and a pen into Al's hands.

He stared at it, his inebriated mind calling up recollections of having seen this volume before. The Men Left Behind, the cover screamed at him. The True Story of Robert White and Albert Calavicci. His hand shook as he scribbled his name on the endplate. It was easier than arguing. Suddenly, though, he didn't want a tattoo after all. She'd ask questions. He could tell by the hungry look in Candy's eyes that she had a million questions. He gave the book back to her. "Here you go, babe," he muttered.

"Oh, thank you! Thank you!" she gushed. "You're a hero, a real hero," she said. "Oh! Can you tell me what happened on the day you escaped up the river?"

Al could feel himself blanching. So Bobby _had_ sold the story… who else knew about that? He shook his head numbly. "Down the river," he mouthed. "You woulda been a fool to take off upriver. Right back into Charlie's territory…"

Lance was taping a dressing to the blonde's tattoo, giving her murmured instructions. Candy was hanging on Al's every word.

"What _happened_? How did they _catch_ you?" she pressed.

Al shook his head again.

Candy wasn't getting the hint. "I can't believe you had the guts!" she cried gleefully. "To take off downriver into the jungle alone, no clothes, no knife, no nothing—"

The blonde was sitting up now, napkin over her lap. She squealed in delight. "No clothes?" she exclaimed. Then her voice grew more sultry as she eyed him suggestively. "_Naked_?"

Al looked at her, more unclothed than clad herself, and inspiration struck. Here was a way to get out of here without question—and at the same time turn a lousy night into a pretty incredible one. "Say, is he done with you, beautiful?" he asked.

"All done," Lance said, tossing his expended needles in a yellow biohazard container.

"How'd you like to grab some supper?" Al asked.

"Me?" the blonde said.

"You see any other beautiful young thing in here?" Al asked. He realized too late that that would hurt Candy's feelings, but his pang of remorse was superseded by the knowledge of what she wanted from him. "What do you say?"

"Supper with an astronaut? I'd be crazy not to!" She sprung to her feet and had to scramble to preserve her modesty. She giggled a little. "Just lemme get dressed?"

"Absolutely!" Al said. "I'll be outside."

"Hey, hang on!" Candy called as he hastened from the building. "What about your Yorkshire terrier?"

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWMMWMWMWM 

Al took his catch to the most expensive restaurant he could find. Good food and excellent wine were the ideal combination when served with charming company. She wanted to know all about NASA and his excursion to the moon—and better yet, she was completely ignorant of the subject. That meant Al could spend a long time explaining simple little things like the order of module separation, and that he could get away with omitting some of the more shameful aspects of the mission. She either hadn't noticed or didn't understand the incident with the book, and asked no questions about that.

When dessert was finished, Al made the obvious next move. As it turned out, she was living in Santa Fe, but was up in Jersey visiting her cousin. One phone call to said cousin was all it took, and she was a free agent until morning. They drove back to New York, and in Al's hotel room they polished off Ruthie's Chianti together. Drunk and laughing, they made mad, passionate and very… athletic love. It wasn't until they fell back among the pillows afterward the third bout that Al realized something.

"You're beautiful, you know that?" he asked.

The girl giggled throatily. She had a gorgeous, deep contralto voice. "Say it again," she said.

"You're beautiful!" he proclaimed.

She kissed him. "Thanks," she sighed. "One more time?"

"Beautiful. You're beautiful." He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. She flushed a little and moved closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder and stroking his chest. She hadn't said anything about the scars. It was almost like she hadn't even seen them. "So beautiful," Al repeated, kissing her fragrant hair.

"You're going to make me fall in love with you," she warned.

He chuckled. "Don't do that, baby. Goddesses shouldn't fall in love with mere mortals."

"Which goddess am I?" she asked.

"Aphrodite. Definitely Aphrodite." He kissed the tip of her perfect nose.

"And who does that make you?" the girl queried.

"Hephaestus?" Al tried, his inebriated mind forgetting what he had just said about mere mortals.

"Okay," she said contentedly. Either she wasn't up on her mythology, or she didn't care. "Hephaestus."

"Say…" Al murmured, sitting up a little. "What _is_ your name?"

She laughed again. "Maxine," she said. "Maxine Delancey."

Al grinned and kissed her again, pulling back to admire her body in the glow of the streetlamps far below. "Maxine," he said, savoring the syllables. "Maxine Delancey." He looked into her crystal blue eyes. "You're beautiful, Maxine," he avowed.

She giggled and threw her arms around his neck.


	52. Chapter FiftyOne

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Stevie ran after the ball, laughing as his grip failed and the grubby orb bounced across the brown lawn. He ran after it, and Al watched the child's loping stride with mute joy. The ghosts of chemotherapy were gone. A full head of black curls framed a face no longer pale or lined with pain. The little body that had been so skeletal was now filling out. The brown eyes glittered with health and innocence.

To Celestina, it was a miracle. Al wished he could believe that. It would have been nice to be able to believe in such a kind and loving God—a God who really cared. With the practiced eye of the cynic, he viewed the boy's recovery in pragmatic terms. Science had conquered the cancer. Modern medicine, that brutally horrific and yet marvelous institution, had driven back the malignancy. Now, motherly love, nurturing, and good food were restoring the little victim to health.

"Mithta Al, catch it!" Stevie cried, tossing the baseball. Al fell from his squat into a kneeling position as he reached for the ball. His fingers closed around it with a soft, satisfying _thump_. The boy crowed in delight.

"Ready?" Al asked, posing to throw.

"Yup, yup!" Stevie said, bouncing eagerly.

"Catch!" Al called. He still had the technique and the accuracy that had made him an all-star pitcher—though the long years of torture and the slow ravages of age had robbed him of his power. A gentle pitch arced beautifully through the air, landing right in the child's outstretched hands. Stevie laughed in delight and threw it clumsily back. Al fumbled this time, making a comedic production of scrambling after the ball. Then he tossed another perfect one.

Neither man nor boy realized Celestina had come outside until she spoke. "Supper is ready," she said, smiling benevolently at the scene. The single tear shed in thanks for this stranger who was now so much more than a friend dried quickly in the desert wind.

"Suppertime, Stevie!" Al said, offering his hand to the child. Esteban took it, and they followed Celestina indoors.

She had, as usual, worked a miracle with her kerosene hot plate. Al took in the contents of the small table as he settled Stevie in his chair and tucked a towel around the child's neck to protect his woolen sweater. There were tortillas and refried beans, a dish of salad, a plate of fruit that must've cost more than Celestina really could afford to spend, and a bowl of Mexican rice. Al felt a pang of guilt every time he ate here, knowing that she was making real sacrifices for this hospitality. At the same time, he knew that this was the only way she had of thanking him for what she saw as a great service. He didn't think it was anything special: he'd just done what anyone with half a heart would have. He knew, though, that despite his own understanding of how insignificant his contribution to the child's health had been, it meant the world to his mother. She needed to do something to show her gratitude, and the extravagant meals she laid out on his weekly visits were her only means of doing so. Thus he accepted them graciously, and hated himself for it in silence.

"I don't know how you do it, honey!" Al enthused. "You're a wonder."

"Wonder? Sí, a wonder," Celestina said, smiling a little. "You sit."

Al took his customary seat next to Stevie, and Celestina began to fill a plate for her guest. Al took another dish and started serving up portions for the child. The smell of the food sent his stomach snarling. He still wasn't eating enough, but he just didn't have the heart. He poured all of his energy into seeming happy. He didn't have any left to actually care about anything.

The meal passed pleasantly, at least from the view of a casual observer. As usual, Al put on a smile and imbued his voice with a friendly lilt to hide his anxiety and desperation. Gavin hadn't been able to get a court date until the middle of January. It was December 18th today. He was going to have a very long, lonely Christmas.

Things had gone as well as they ever did in New York. The old Calavicci charm was as good as ever. Best of all, he had another girl in his little black book. Maxine, Maxine… God, she was gorgeous! The thought of their morning after made him grin. Poor kid had been sore as heck after a night of vigorous exercise on her new tattoo. After an hour or so, though, he had her feeling better despite their mind-melting hangovers…

Santa Fe. Six hour drive, seven, tops. He had her number in his wallet and was thinking of giving her a shout for New Year's. That was, if he didn't decide that a party full of total strangers would be more fun…

The mind-numbing effects of pleasure couldn't be underestimated. Not when he was coming home to an empty suite and an unused dog dish every damned night…

After supper, Al settled down on the bed with Stevie and a tray of brightly colored alphabet magnets he'd picked up before leaving New York. They went through this several times every Saturday. Al didn't know the first thing about teaching someone to read, but the alphabet seemed like the place to start.

Stevie knew the drill. He sat with his back against the adult's stomach, one foot tucked up against his body and the other leg stretched out towards the limp pillows. He waited patiently while Al picked up one of the plastic forms.

"Do you know this one?" Al asked.

Stevie reached out and touched it, tracing the two perpendicular lines. "Uhm… "P"," he said.

"That's close," Al said. "Good. Real close." He took the small hand in his and moved the fingers over the letter again. "That's 'T'. 'T' for… _train_." Stevie laughed and made a sound like a chugging steam engine. Al smiled. "Right! 'T' for… _tortilla_. 'T' for _trailer_. 'T'."

"Tee," the child repeated triumphantly.

"Good!" Al cheered. He replaced that letter in its slot on the tray, and grabbed another. "What about this letter? What letter is this?"

Stevie knew this one. He clapped his hands. " 'A'!" he crowed. " 'A' for _Al_!"

The captain chuckled. "That's right!" he said. "What about this one?"

"Em for Mama!"

"And this one?"

" 'E' for Ethteban!"

"What about this one?"

"Uhm…" Stevie's face wrinkled in concentration. "Uhm… 'D'?"

"Close," Al said. "That's 'P'. 'P' for… _park_. 'P' for…"

They went on like that for half an hour or more. Celestina lit the candle and sat next to the bed, watching them and mending one of her shabby frocks. At last Al started to put the magnets away.

"Where'th 'chuh'?" Stevie asked, reaching out and grabbing the tray.

Al looked down at him, puzzled. "Where's what?"

" 'A' for Al," Stevie said, pointing to each letter in turn. " 'M' for Mama. 'E' for Esteban. Where'th 'chuh', for Chethter?"

Al laughed softly and picked up two of the magnets. "You put 'C' and 'H' together, and that makes 'chuh' for 'Chester'," he said.

" 'Thee', 'haych', 'chuh' for 'Chethter'," the child said. He reached across the thin mattress and gathered up his stuffed dog, hugging it tightly. "Love Chethter," he said happily.

"Yeah," Al murmured. "Yeah. Me too."

He helped Stevie into his pajamas and settled him in bed. After a couple songs, the boy was fast asleep, and Al got to his feet and picked up his helmet. He left the leathers outside: no sense tracking dust into Celestina's home. He bent to kiss her forehead.

"See you," he said.

She reached out and grabbed his sleeve, shaking her head. "Where is Chester?" she asked. "Sometimes he come, some times he does not. Why?"

Al shifted uncomfortably. He didn't want to talk about it. "Sharon's got him," he said simply, hoping she would leave it at that.

He should've known better. Without regard for her sleeping son, Celestina sprung to her feet. "Why?" she demanded. "Why she have him? Chester is your dog! You have him before, even before you meet _her_! Why she have him? I go, get him back—"

Al caught her arms and laughed. "Naw, honey, you can't get him back. I'm trying. I'll do my best."

"I help," she pledged. "How I help?"

The laugh was bitter now, but he couldn't help it. "Why don't you pray about it?" he said. He kissed her cheek and smoothed her hair. "I'll be here for Christmas, just like we agreed," he said.

Celestina's sad smile just about broke his heart. "Sí," she said. "Sí, for Christmas."

Al paused. "Is Juan coming?" he asked.

Her eyes flashed dark fury. "No!" she snapped. "No! He not welcome in this house. Never again! Wicked, wicked man!"

Remorse could travel at ninety miles an hour. It followed Al all the way back to Starbright. Somehow, he knew this whole mess was his fault.

_MWMWMWMMWWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

Back at the compound, he peeled off his dusty clothes and made for the shower. A good hot, thundering wash was just what he needed. He emerged just before one o'clock, red and wrinkled, and his feet traced the path to the cupboard full of liquor even before he knew where he was going. The trips to Wickenburg took from him any chance of making advances towards Saturday night company, and he had to spend those nights alone. He could feel the emptiness pressing in around him, the loneliness encroaching on his mind. Anxiety that always came with solitude was starting to take hold in his heart. The best thing to do was to get drunk as a skunk and try to numb it.

He poured himself a generous glass of whiskey and was just about to lift it to his lips when the telephone ran.

Al stiffened. It was the outside line. No one ever called on the outside line… at least not at this time of the night. He set down the drink so quickly that some of the amber fluid sloshed over the side onto the small counter.

"Calavicci," he panted, catching up the receiver.

The voice on the other end was slurred and low, and incredibly anxious. "U-uncle Al?"

Al frowned, not quite able to place the voice. "Possibly…" he said warily.

"It's… it's Luke…"

Al felt himself relax. "Oh, hey! How you doing, kid?"

"Uncle Al… you and Aunt Sharon… you aren't… still seeing each other or anything?" the young man asked. He sounded nervous as hell.

"Well, we're back in court in three weeks, but—"

"Will she know I called you?" Luke blurted.

"No," Al said. "No. It'll be between you and me." He shifted the receiver to the other ear. "What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry to call so late… I… but you said if I ever needed anything… anything…"

"And I meant it," Al said firmly. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm in trouble," Luke confessed.

Al sat down, folding his shaking right hand into his left armpit. He needed that whiskey… "Okay. Everybody gets into a bit of trouble now and then. What kind of trouble?" He kept his voice deliberately calm and conversational. Luke obviously needed a little support.

"I… I'm at a party… Mom thought I was out stud-udying, but I went to this party… everybody's pretty smashed, and… and…" There was a muffled hiccough.

"And you are too," Al finished. "That's okay. I've been smashed once or twice myself."

"Thing is… I dunno if I can drive…" Luke confessed. "I mean, I know that 'don't drink and drive' stuff's a load of crap, but…"

"Yeah, but why take the risk, huh?" Al said cheerfully. "Okay. You driving your father's wagon?"

"Uh-huh."

"Where are you?"

"Uh… it's about… maybe forty miles south of town? Rural route 74… you can't miss it: they did the fence in Christmas lights…"

"All right," Al said. "I'll find it. You stay there, okay? I'll be there within an hour."

"Within an hour… thanks, Uncle Al." The gratitude in the kid's voice was unbelievable.

"Sure thing, kid. Just stay there."

"Promise…"

The line went dead.

So much for getting plastered, Al thought as he hastened to the bedroom to dress.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

He made the journey in less than thirty minutes. Luke was right. You couldn't miss the place. In addition to the decorations all along the road, there had to be twenty or thirty cars parked in the ditches. Al found the Quinn family station wagon, and settled his bike next to it. Then he made his way towards the house.

The front door was hanging open in defiance of the nocturnal chill, and the remains of what looked to have been a great party were scattered around. Half-conscious revelers sprawled over the floor, the furniture and each other, reeking of booze and pot. Al smirked. Must've been a fun night.

"Uncle Al!" Luke cried, standing up unsteadily and lurching towards him. Al caught the boy with a good-natured chuckle.

"Hey. Had a good night?"

Luke nodded guiltily.

Al surveyed the wreckage. "What about the rest of these kids?"

Luke shook his head. "Everybody's staying the night, but I can't. Mom'd kill me."

Al laughed a little. "Yeah, I imagine she would. C'mon. Let's get you home."

They loaded the bike carefully into the trunk, and Al thanked the fates that Luke was driving a station wagon. Then Luke got into the passenger seat and Al started the engine.

"Thanks," Luke said again, rolling his window down and leaning his head against the frame of the vehicle. "You're my best friend."

Al shook his head in amusement. "Rule number one: the designated driver is always your best friend," he said.

Liquor had loosened the boy's lips, though, and he was in the mood for a soul-searching confession. "No, I mean, I don't have friends…" he said. "Nobody likes me. Nobody. Sometimes I feel like I'm so _alone_, you know? You know?"

"Yes," Al said softly. "Yes, I know just what you mean."

"No, but you've got freedom, and a job, and a dog, and all I've got is two stupid parents and a lousy little sister… if it weren't for Gramps, I think maybe I'd go crazy…" Luke sighed drunkenly. "I just wanna run away and never come back, you know?"

"Well, that's one solution," Al agreed. Luke looked at him in bewilderment. That wasn't what he had been expecting to hear. "You're old enough to make it on your own. Of course, there's another solution."

"There is?" Luke asked.

"Sure. You're a senior, aren't you?"

"Yeah…"

"Do well in school?"

"If I want to."

Al nodded. "Well, there's your way out. You buckle down and work hard this next term, and get good grades."

Luke wrinkled his nose. "I don't get it," he said.

"That's 'cause I'm not finished yet," Al told him. "When you get your diploma, tell your folks you want to go to university. I bet your dad'd send you anywhere you wanted. You could study whatever you want—I don't care. But it'd give you a chance to find out more about who you are."

"University's for people with brains," Luke mumbled.

"And you haven't got brains?"

"I just wanna live my own life, you know? Just wanna be free… I just want a friend…"

The kid was drunk beyond all caring. Al smiled a little and let him doze off. Finally the city rose around them, and Al navigated towards the right neighborhood. Luke awoke with a snort when he stopped the car.

"You got a plan for getting into the house?" Al asked.

Luke nodded, getting clumsily out of the vehicle. Al caught his shoulder and pulled him back. "Hang on," he said. "Help me get my bike down first, okay?"

Between the two of them they removed the motorcycle. Then Al brushed out the trunk hastily and locked the vehicle. Luke was by this time staggering up the front walk. Al ran after him, trying to prevent him from doing something stupid like ringing the bell. All this subterfuge: he wouldn't let the boy blow it just because he was three sheets to the wind. At the house, however, Luke turned sharply and moved towards the side of the building. Al followed him into the backyard.

"I got my secret entrance," Luke explained thickly. "I'll fall asleep in my chair—do it all the time…"

He knelt in one of the flowerbeds and popped the screen out of one of the basement windows. He swung his legs into the gloom within, and looked up at Al.

"Thanks…" he said. "You're the best friend I got."

Al smiled. "Sure," he murmured. "Any time."

Luke nodded and slipped into the darkness. A moment later, a skinny hand reached up and dragged the screen inside. Then the window closed, and Al was alone in the night.

There was so much pain in the world, he reflected as he returned to the street. Here was a kid with all the advantages of home and family, and he still felt completely alienated from the world—so much so that his womanizing ex-uncle was his best friend?

He wished he could help Luke, but he couldn't even help himself. There was nothing to do but roar off at top speed for Starbright, and wash away his cares with the kind of merciful amnesia that you could only find in bottles.

Just a couple drinks, and everything would be okay again.


	53. Chapter FiftyTwo

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Maxine was an excellent girlfriend, but the long-distance thing wasn't working. It was a twelve-hour round trip commute just to see her, and Al only had the one day a week in which to do so. She offered to move to Phoenix, but she was locked into a six-month lease and had no job lined up in Arizona. Had Al been sure their relationship was serious, he might have tried to set something up for her at Starbright, but if she was going to turn into a transient girlfriend like so many others that could prove to be a decision he would regret. Instead, he had told her to stay in Santa Fe and sit out her lease, and they'd reassess things later. To ease the ravages of the distance, they took to meeting at a seedy little Motel Six hallway between her place and the Project. Every Sunday afternoon they got together for a little recreation. They were getting to know each other very well in one respect, while in the more philosophical ways they were almost perfect strangers. The occasional post-coital chat didn't really give them deep insight into each other's souls. Al didn't mind. She had a great body and an adventurous approach to life, and the weekly excursions left him free to pursue other prospects at Starbright. None of those women had Maxine's flair or the unadulterated energy that was a natural by-product of her youth, but they were all nice ladies.

To Al's amazement, Gina from Typesetting had come back for more after all. She didn't seem in the least put off by his nightmares, though they certainly weren't improving. One weird thing about her was her morbid fixation with his scars. She was also always rummaging in his liquor cupboard, though she never drank, and once he had caught her going through his wallet. She had made such a joke of that incident that he had forgotten it almost at once.

Chester was still in Sharon's clutches. The hearing had been pushed back two weeks because of a bailiffs' strike, and then had to be further delayed, as Al had to head out to Washington for the annual funding review. That, at least, went well. By the middle of February life at Starbright was back to normal, and Al was still waiting to go to court and try to get his dog back.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWM_

They had been at it for eight months now, Sharon reflected glumly, and they'd only got it on once.

She reached out and ran her hand up John's back. He was her current boyfriend: a beefy clerk from the county records office. He had broad shoulders, a deep voice, and an undeniably romantic streak that she found strangely enjoyable. He was a nice guy, and pretty good in bed, but now and then she found herself hankering after Al. When it came to unadulterated sex appeal, he was number one in her books. Even this simple contact with John just wasn't the same as it would have been had she been touching her ex instead. Was it possible that she was missing Al's scars? That was ridiculous… or was it?

There was a clicking of tags as a little weight landed on her feet. She sighed in exasperation and kicked at it. Al's penchant for snuggling with the dog had bred a very bad habit. When Sharon was in bed with a man, she didn't want _anyone_ cutting in on her action, and that included pets! Chester didn't seem to get it. He thought that once the bed stopped rocking people wanted to cuddle indiscriminately. Maybe Al had been like that, but most guys saw the dog as an annoyance, and Sharon was starting to share that view.

It wasn't that she didn't like Chester. She definitely did. It was just that she wished he understood her needs a little better. When she came home after a long day conducting a seminar for middle school kids who had only taken art because it was an easier elective than calculus—_then_ she wanted to put up her feet and pet the dog. When, on the other hand, she was lying next to one man and fantasizing about another, she just wanted a little peace!

Sharon hadn't really realized how much work a dog was. Chester was turning into yet another responsibility. She had to remember to keep him fed and watered, and also had to keep his food stocked, which was a chore unto itself. Then there were the "walks" three times a day, during which she had to collect and dispose of his messes. He was starting to smell, too, which Sharon knew was her own fault for neglecting to bathe him. He was so difficult to wash, though! She seemed to recall he had always stayed still for Al, but when she had tried to clean him, he had squirmed and wriggled, and finally escaped her grasp, sprung out of the bathtub, and tracked soap all through the apartment. She just didn't understand that dog!

It was one more reason that the rash of delays to Al's appeal was so infuriating. It was his turn to win, which would probably put him in a good mood and make him more eager to fool around than he seemed to be when he lost. It would also mean that he'd take the dog off of her hands for a while. She could hardly wait. All very well for Nancy, who was monopolizing on the unexpected delay, contacting experts and building the custody case of the century. Sharon was the one left holding the pooch.

She sighed and booted Chester off the bed again. Then she wrapped her arm around John's waist. As she drifted back to sleep, she was dimly aware of a hot, furry body settling on her feet again.

Damned dog.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

Al paced anxiously, bouncing off first one wall of the Wickenburg County Courthouse men's room, and then the other. His palms were clammy and shivers of apprehension course d up and down his spine. It was a disaster. An absolute disaster. As he paced, he talked through his anxieties, railing like a madman at Gavin. Like all good divorce attorneys, the taller man was leaning against the sink and taking it in stride, waiting for the storm to blow itself out.

"An animal shrink!" Al cried. "She brought in a _pet psychologist _all the way from _Los Angeles_! Why the hell didn't _you_ think of that?"

Gavin didn't answer, and Al didn't really need him to. He just needed to blow his stack a little. "Chester respecting Sharon as the alpha female of his pack: what kind of hooey is that? That shrink made it sound like Chester sees me as a playmate—and that's a bad thing? Who's he gonna play with if he winds up with her? Only thing she knows how to play is 'Here We Get Under the Mulberry Bush'! She doesn't want him! She _can't_ want him! Not as much as I do! Damn her, he's _my dog_! _He's my dog_!"

Al slammed both hands against the brick wall so that his splayed palms stung. He needed his anger. It was hiding his pain and the crippling terror that came with the thought of losing Chester. At best he would have to do without his Yorkie until another appeal could be forced through. At worst… at worst…

"Damn you, I thought you were the best!" Al cried, turning on Gavin again. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

He paused long enough that Prendergast, guessing incorrectly that the fit was passing, had a chance to speak. "Captain, this is a very unusual case," he chided gently. "Most custody arguments center around a child—"

Al kicked the other wall, sending a jolt of cathartic pain into his leg. "I don't give a damn about that!" he howled. "I want to know how she can take Chester away! And don't give me that line about Arizona civil law! It's not right! He's mine and it just isn't right that she can do this!"

"Maybe not, Captain, but it's lega—"

"Damn you, don't tell me it's legal!" This time, Al attacked a stall door, kicking it with such force that it bounced back and clipped him on the shoulder. He smacked it and marched across the room. "Don't tell me it's legal!" he roared again, choler overcoming his inhibitions. _Legal _and_ right_ were very, very different! It was legal to declare a man dead after a "reasonable period" M.I.A., but it sure as hell wasn't right! Legal, but not right, that a man should come back, broken and twisted after shedding six years' blood and tears in the name of his country to find his wife gone, his reason for living vanished with some damned attorney! _Legal_. All exquisitely _legal_.

Gavin straightened and patted Al's arm in an infuriatingly condescending manner. "I'll wait outside," he said. "You take your time and pull yourself together."

A snarl of fury bubbled up in Al's throat, and he was about to bite back when the lawyer shook his head. "Let's try to maintain a little dignity, please," he said dispassionately. "Remember: it isn't just your reputation on the line."

Then he was gone. Left alone with his mask of righteous anger, Al dove into the nearest stall, locking it behind him before he could give in to the tremors in his limbs. He lowered the lid of the toilet. Without concern for his trousers, he sat down upon it, pressing his knees together and rubbing his face with quivering hands.

He couldn't believe he was reacting like this. Once upon a time he'd had more self-control, more dignity that this. Gavin was right: he and Sharon were behaving like a couple of kids squabbling over something that from a larger perspective seemed so miserably insignificant. What difference did it make that the dog in question was Albert Calavicci's one touchstone, the only thing besides the women and the whiskey that was keeping him sane? Sharon didn't see it that way. The lawyers didn't either, nor did the judge, nor would the media… nor would the Navy. Al couldn't blame them for the scorn they'd shed on his actions. In a way, the ridicule was preferable to what he was beginning to dread was the truth: that his grip on reality was starting to slip. That he was beginning to go crazy after all.

Al's hands were shaking so badly that he almost dropped his flask as he drew it from his pocket. He fumbled with the cap, and then knocked back a generous dose of the vodka within. It soothed him. The trembling abated a little. Two more slugs, and it was gone.

He emerged and washed his face. Time to go out there and brazen it out.

Dignity, he thought as he stared at his reflection. Or at least the illusion of dignity.

He'd left the real thing in the jungle, alongside his courage.

_MWMWMWMWMWMMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

By a horrible stroke of ill-fortune, the judge who had sat through the testimony of the animal psychologist, and Al's shocked rebuttals, was none other than George Goldman, the nozzle who had awarded Chester to Sharon in the first place. Al sat in horror as he listened to the ruling.

"After due consideration of all aspects of the case," Goldman declaimed pompously; "I award the custody and ownership of the creature in question, one Chester Calavicci, in perpetuity to the defendant, Sharon Marie Quinn. The plaintiff is denied all visitation rights. Captain Calavicci, I do not know whom you think you are serving by squandering public moneys in this childish dispute, but it will no longer be tolerated. If you pursue the matter, I will hold you in contempt."

Al was about to stand up and shout that _he_ wasn't the one worthy of contempt here, but then he remembered that he was going to see this through with an illusion of dignity. Instead he flared his nostrils coldly. Then the other shoe fell.

"I am furthermore issuing a restraining order to prevent you from seeing your former wife—"

"_NO!_" Sharon cried, springing to her feet. She blushed when she saw all eyes in the courtroom upon her. "I mean… uh… I request that you reconsider that, your honor. It's… really not necessary."

Goldman's eyes narrowed, but he turned to the clerk. "Strike that from the record," he instructed. "On appeal from the defendant, I will not issue a restraining order at this time." He glared very sternly at Al. "Should any complaints reach my ears, Captain, I will not hesitate to recant. Case dismissed!"

The gavel came down, shattering Al's hopes. Then the judge exited, and the court began to disperse.

Sharon came over, Chester still in her arms as he had been at the start of the day's proceedings. Al focused very hard on the pencil in his hands, rolling it between his fingers with such determination that the grain of the wood was probably affecting permanent changes to his prints.

"Hey, sailor," she cooed. "No hard feelings?"

"I'm going to appeal," Al croaked.

Gavin leaned over. "Captain! Didn't you hear what Goldman just said?" he demanded.

"I'll take it to the state court," Al said numbly. "The Supreme Court if I have to…"

"The Supreme Court won't hear a dispute over a—"

"You shut up!" Al snapped tersely. "I've had it with your comments and your useless suggestions. From now on, we're doing this my way."

"Oh, no, we aren't!" Prendergast said. "We most certainly aren't. I'm done with this. This case was ridiculous from the start. If you're going to try to appeal to the state, I'm finished. I wash my hands of this absurd dispute, Captain, and I wash my hands of you. I thought a war hero and national icon such as yourself was worthy of a little assistance despite the bizarre nature of the case. I was willing to go on with this farce out of deference to your record and the services you've done your country. Now I'm starting to think you're not of sound mind! For God's sake, man, it's a _dog_! I know men who wouldn't act this way about their _sons_!"

He got to his feet, closing his briefcase with a resounding _slam_.

"Good day," he said. "You can send my cheque in the mail. I never want to see you again."

He strode away.

Sharon laughed. "You sure told him," she applauded. "I'll have to remember that one the next time Nancy loses me a case—"

Sham dignity be damned. Al snatched up his helmet and fled. Not until he was safe within Starbright's walls and numbing his despair in the only way he knew how did he realize he had left the balance of his protective gear in the cloakroom of the courthouse.


	54. Epilogue

EPILOGUE

Spring was in the air. Albert Calavicci knew that soon the desert would be blooming with its particular breeds of especially hardy flowers. The school year was winding down. It wouldn't be so long before Stevie would be spending his days with the old lady up the street, the one who lived next to the trailer Al was ninety-five percent sure housed a coke operation. Starbright was already settling into a summer routine as staff put in for holidays and took off for the weekends.

He approached the apartment building with trepidation, hands jammed into the pockets of his leather jacket—recovered from the courthouse three days after he'd left it… as soon as he had sobered up enough to ride back into town.

Al stared at the building before him. He didn't want to go in there, but he had to. He'd wrestled with the decision for a long time, and finally decided that he had to. He couldn't go on like this. He needed some closure. He needed to say goodbye.

He sounded the buzzer, and her voice floated down. "Good morning, good morning! What can I do for you?" she trilled.

He depressed the intercom. "Sharon, it's Al. Can I please come up?"

He thought he heard a delighted giggle, but that had to be his imagination. She rang him in, and he moved through the inner door. The stairs seemed too long and his feet too heavy, but he somehow reached her floor. Penthouse level of a four-storey building. Typical Sharon pizzazz.

She was waiting for him, draped against the open door.

"Well, hello, there, sailor," she said. "Couldn't stay away, huh?"

He didn't want to hear it. "I came to say goodbye to Chester," he said, brushing past her and into the apartment. He blinded himself to the chaos of dirty clothes and used dishes and whistled crisply. "Chester! C'mere boy!" he called.

There was no response. No jingle of collar tags. No joyful yelp. Nothing.

Unable to fight the desolation that he knew was flooding into his eyes, he turned on Sharon. Where was he? What had she done with him? What the hell had she done with him?

She was smiling in amusement. Maybe she couldn't see his pain. He hoped she couldn't. "I gave him away," she said, answering his unspoken question.

Al couldn't believe it. He stood there, stunned. "You… who…" he croaked.

"Luke," Sharon said, closing the door. "Graduation present. He's going to Brown University in Rhode Island: wants to take summer session. Can you believe it? Summer session before his first year? And could he have picked a school any farther away? You'd think he wanted to get away from his folks or something!"

Sharon always had had a blind spot where her family was concerned. Al tried to process what she was saying. "You gave Chester… to Luke?"

She shrugged. "Yeah. Kid's in love with him. Thought he was going to kiss me when I told him."

"Oh…" Al felt a selfish pang of anger that she hadn't offered him first dibs on the dog. After all, Chester was _his_ little guy…

Then he remembered Luke's desolation on the night he'd picked him up at the Christmas party. _I just want a friend_, he had said. The boy needed Chester. If anybody deserved a great dog like Chester, it was a kid like Luke. Certainly not a worthless nothing like Albert Calavicci.

They'd be happy together. They'd take good care of each other.

Al mustered a smile that was almost wholehearted. "I'm glad," he said. "That's great. What's he want to study?"

"Music," Sharon said. "Weird, huh?"

This from the woman with a degree in Visual Arts.

"Not that weird," Al said.

"Say…" Sharon shut the door and began to untuck her blouse. "As long as you're here…"

What the hell, Al reasoned. As long as he was here. After all, no hard feelings, right?

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

Dan Penvenen smiled at Gina Loffler, his own little mole from Typesetting. A fine young woman. A genuine professional. From her information, he had come to an interesting conclusion. Calavicci, it seemed, was deep in the clutches of subclinical Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. So Congressman Davies was right. Interestingly enough, the good captain had managed to go undetected for years. It seemed things were coming to a head, though. Dan now had a sense of how much the man drank, and when. Alcoholism was a disease, and if it progressed as it should, it was only a matter of time before Calavicci made the cardinal error.

When he turned up drunk at work, Dan would have him. _Right _where he wanted him. All it ever took was time.

First, though, he should make it plain to Calavicci that he was on his side. It wouldn't do to raise suspicions.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

Al sat at his desk. He should have been working, but instead he was thinking. He couldn't keep on like this, a different girl every night, a tenth of the female staff of the Project on a bizarre three-week rotation. It was ridiculous. It was also dangerous. Women were funny creatures. While they might be content with the occasional one-night stand for a little while, sooner or later they'd wax territorial, and there would be trouble.

After all, he thought with the conceit of a man whose faith in his sex appeal was the one aspect of his self-respect that wasn't wavering, there was only one Calavicci!

What he needed was Chester, but he couldn't have him. He glanced at the letter he'd received this morning from Rhode Island. Luke was happy. He was getting English out of the way in the summer term, and he and Chester had a little apartment just off of campus. Sharon's brother the accountant was footing the bills. The kid had even made a couple of friends, and was thinking of starting up a jazz group. At least that was one happy ending.

That didn't help Al out of his predicament. He needed someone or something to be a constant presence around the suite. The dreams were getting worse. He needed a guardian angel. Or a guardian _goddess_…

A rap on the door startled him out of his thoughts. "Come in," he said, straightening in his chair and trying to look busy.

The door opened and the impeccably dressed guy from Human Resources came in. The one Lester Davies had recommended. Al groped for the name. Parkridge… Pendragon…

"Penvenen! What can I do for you?" Al asked.

Penvenen smiled. "Actually, I'm hear about the holiday schedule," he said amicably. "There's a member of staff who's seriously overdue for a couple weeks' leave."

"Who?" Al asked.

"You," the man from H.R. said. "It's my recommendation that you take a fortnight and get away from the Project. Travel somewhere. See a bit of the world. As soon as possible."

Al laughed. "I can't do that! There's way too much work to do."

"Mr. Prysock can stand in for two weeks," Penvenen said dismissively. "He's very capable. Besides, I've already put in to Admiral Donohue on your behalf."

Al shook his head. "You can't do that," he said, not sure whether he was right or not.

"Of course I can! I'm Human Resources. It's been approved. All you need to do is book your ticket and go."

Al looked at the eager young face in front of him, and his heart melted. The kid wanted to do something nice for him. And he couldn't deny that he needed a break. "Well, thank you," he said. "When does this leave start?"

"The day after tomorrow," Penvenen said, his smile expanding. "Just enough time to pack."

"That's perfect," Al said. "I never would have done this on my own…"

"I know."

"Thanks, Penvenen."

"Dan," the younger man said, extending a hand. "Call me Dan."

Al shook hands cheerfully. "Dan. Call me Al."

"If you like," Dan said. "Enjoy your trip."

Then he left the room. Al sat back, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Maybe the kid wasn't such a cold fish after all. Like Doctor Gushman—Gooshie—he had just needed a chance to expand into his environment. An opportunity to settle in.

Two weeks' leave? He couldn't remember the last time he'd had so much time off. What the heck was he going to do with it?

Then his earlier train of thought overtook him again. He grinned as he picked up the outside line and dialed New Mexico.

The phone rang three times before she answered, in a seductive contralto. "Who is it?"

"Maxine? It's Al," he said. "Listen, Maxine, honey… you ever been to Vegas?"

FINIS


End file.
